The Blasted Fate
by Don't Abandon Hope
Summary: Sixteen years after Eragon and Saphira left, someone decides to use one of the Forbidden Spells - Du Wydra Nángorörh. Turns out Eragon and Saphira failed to eliminate all the threats and problems when they destroyed the Empire.
1. Prologue

**Prolouge**

* * *

><p>A cold, sharper and more intense than any other settled into his bones as he stood watching the sky. Like other worldly watchers, the stars paid him no attention as he waited and simply watched as the frost bitten night wore on. His breath rose in a mist before him, swirling into nothingness as it was swept away into the darkness. <em>Soon<em>, he told himself. _It'll happen soon._

Afraid that he'd miss it, he refused the desire to move about in order to wake up his cold numb limbs. He denied his two apprentices such indulgences too. _Soon._ It had to be soon …

It had taken a long time for them to get here: he'd spent the past decade and a half watching and waiting for the signs the king told him would be there. It was one of the main reasons – other than the control – that the man had been searching for the true name of the ancient language. Without that name what the king intended for him to do was impossible.

A biting wind tore through his hair and tugged at his clothes as a cloud passed over the moon, obscuring the faint light and throwing them into darkness. Dawn was little more than an hour away. A movement beside him caught his attention: "Be still." He hissed at the dwarf on his right. The Urgal on his left glanced at his fellow but otherwise remained as he was; still and silent standing guard over the lonely hill top.

_Not long now_, he told himself. All the signs, all the calculations and so forth had pointed to this day – this night. He couldn't have possibly got it wrong. If he was wrong then he was on his own and alone he could not do what the king wanted done; the two apprentices at his sides were barely adequate for the purpose of tonight's ordeal.

A ghostly shape blotted out half the sky as three dragons drifted towards them and settled down on the frost covered ground behind their Riders. "Master," the dwarf attempted in a voice fearful of reprimand.

"What?" why couldn't the dragons of hatched for humans or elves like they should? What use were dwarves? Urgals were no more than simple-minded beasts but at least they could follow an order and not question it all the damn time.

"How much longer do you intend for us to remain standing here freezing to death?"

"Until I say so," he looked at the dwarf and resisted the temptation to hit him. "Now be still and shut up!" A low growl from his dragon affirmed his statement and the two apprentices grew still as statues and silent as graves as they returned to their watch of the night.

_How much longer _are _we going to wait?_

_Sunrise._ He grunted shortly in his mind in response to the dragon's question.

_Do you think we got it wrong?_

_We can't have. We checked and double checked everything: it's tonight._

_Tonight is almost over._ The dragon pointed out; he got no reply.

Sixteen years he had waited. The chances of him actually achieving what he intended to do were slim, yet if he had done everything right – and he was certain he had – then there would be no reason for failure. To use one of the Forbidden Spells, as he was about to, was to open your very soul and life force to the fabric of pure magic. Magic permeated the air and held together everything that made up the world; what he intended to do would tear a hole through all that and open up a bridge – a pathway – between this world and the next.

In other words, he intended to bring the dead back.

And it was possible only because his brother had been stupid enough to let him alone. But that wasn't important right now, he'd thank that brother soon enough … the fool should've realised that there was no redemption – no way back to the life and ideals he'd once held on to – for him. The king had forced him to become a man he no longer had any reason or desire to change. Because the man he was now wasn't treated like something unpleasant on the bottom of a boot.

_If you can't be loved,_ he reasoned. _Settle for being feared._

The pale light of dawn was fast approaching and still nothing had happened. He could not begin the incantation until the phenomenon occurred. Scrolls and books and stores of knowledge he alone had found and knew of had informed him – nay _taught_ him – that the lights he was waiting for were a result of that other world – the void – pressing against the walls of this one. The lights were the wards of living protecting their world from the dead. Yet if he achieved what he envisioned then the pathway he would create would also bring life back into whomever walked it. It was … dangerous magic … forbidden magic … it was Du Wydra Nángorörh …

He shook his head. Where were they? Records told him that the phenomenon only occurred on this day every seven years. He couldn't afford to wait that long; his brother and the others were bound to be getting suspicious by now. The sense that something was amiss in the world was after all, mounting and increasing day by day. Surely they'd of realised the hatchlings were missing by now? Or did they assume that they'd encountered some misfortune and died?

As the sun peeked over the horizon he gave up. The moment he turned away in disgust the Urgal let out a coarse yell; "Look!"

Spinning on his heel, and nearly slipping on the icy ground, he saw it at last. The lights. The brightening sky was awash with colours of every hue writhing around the lofty ceiling of the world. Almost like a hoard of dragons were obscuring the atmosphere or a living rainbow had appeared. For a moment they all stood and stared at the sky; drinking in the mystery and majesty of what they were witnessing before he jerked his senses back to reality and why they were there.

Uttering curt commands to the dwarf and Urgal beside him, he wasted no time. Taking a deep breath, aware that he had until the lights ceased, he began to chant in the ancient language. Words and formulas and phrases forbidden flew from his tongue as he let the darkest and rawest of magic loose upon that place where two worlds collided. For ten full minutes he spoke, until, with a noise incomprehensible, soundless and numbing, a ripping vibrating tear appeared in the sky.

Almost as if a giant had forced his fingers through the wall of the world and jerked it apart with little regard for what he'd just done. A jagged, frayed and irregular hole hung in the air as he began the second spell. The dwarf beside him dropped to the ground dead and a moment later so did his dragon. He gritted his teeth and reached out all around him to any and every source and store of energy he could find and thus use to maintain the spell.

Trees as old as time itself withered and died as grass shrivelled and animals – from the tiny to the gigantic – keeled over as their life force was sucked out of them like a leech draining blood. The very ground he stood on yielded and surrendered and died as he searched and found and claimed more and more energy. He cared not where it came from; if it was in his grasp it was his to use. The discovery that such a method was possible was not as significant as it would've been had he not of been in the midst of breaking apart reality; he wondered if the king had known about this trick.

And still it craved more. More than he had and more than he was able to find. Just as the cold reaches of fear gripped his gut as he suddenly realised that he might've gone too far, the magic ceased and the tear was filled with a blinding light unlike any ever seen before. He threw a hand up to shield his eyes as everything around them was bathed in that glow. His dragon hissed at the brightness. The magic took hold and the drop in his strength was beyond measure as he staggered to his knees and the Urgal and his dragon fainted.

Squinting, he saw the unmistakeable silhouette of a man striding towards them out of that breach. Unable to make anything out about who it was, he dragged himself upright and watched through shaded eyes as the man approached. Abruptly the light dimmed and ebbed away until it was nothing more than a tear in the sky filled with incomprehensible possibilities and danger.

In the unexpected dim light of dawn, he turned his gaze upon the figure who'd just so casually strolled out of the void and death. A moment's contemplation as they studied one another; the recently dead man gazed at the sword on his hip and then to the red dragon behind him before opening his mouth and speaking: "You learnt your lessons well I see … son."

"You weren't supposed to come through!" he spat back. This was _not_ what he'd intended at all and not what had been planned.

A chill smile stretched across his father's lips. "The king was unable to make it across. Something to do with what that _Shadeslayer_ boy did. But no fear, my son, we can build an Empire greater than he was ever capable of doing!"

Eragon jerked awake and sat bolt upright, tearing himself away from the dream. His heart racing, he gazed around the room with long disused battle senses ready, aware of his clammy skin and heaving chest. Saphira grunted in her sleep as she shifted to a more comfortable position on the over large cushion. A small smile lit his face as he beheld her. _A dream,_ he mused, lying back down on the bed. _Nothing more._

Moments later his regular breathing and heartbeat once more filled the room in a comforting harmony with Saphira's as he settled back to sleep in the arms of his companion. She murmured something in her sleep and reached out to him as he allowed slumber to claim him. _A dream … just a dream …_


	2. Only A Dream

**Only A Dream**

* * *

><p><em>It's still on your mind isn't it?<em> Saphira asked as Eragon continued to pace the room as he had been doing ever since he woke up. Still plagued by flashes from the dream that had woken him, he'd climbed out of bed at dawn and started pacing the room. _That dream you had last night._

_I can't seem to shake it._ He admitted, _No matter how hard I try._ Again he saw the sky tearing apart and the figure striding purposefully out of that breach and back into life. _Du Wydra Nángorörh_, he mused. _Why dream about that? Oromis told me those spells have been forbidden since before the time of the Grey Folk. _

_It was just a dream Eragon._

_It didn't feel like a dream._ Sighing, he strode out of the house and stopped in the doorway and surveyed his friends – because that's what they were – in the common area. They had sailed across the sea for well over three weeks before arriving at an expanse of untamed land bigger than any of the other's they'd already sailed past. Upon deeming the uninhabited island safe, Eragon and the elves had set about creating a home for themselves. By singing in the ancient language, they had persuaded the young trees in the forest upon the beach to form and create homes for them all.

They had also stumbled across a large quantity of rose quartz on the other side of their little haven and the elves had taken a child-like delight in using the stone to enhance and expand upon the natural beauty of the landscape. The result was a settlement grown from the trees with the buildings partially made from the gem stone. Still unnamed after sixteen years, the settlement was set out in a haphazard semi-circle at the edge of the beach where the forest began; they'd only realised that was so after the buildings had all been completed. The space between the homes and the sea was referred to as the common and Saphira spent much of her time lying in the yellow sand, basking in the sun drifting into a doze to the sound of the waves crashing gently upon the shore.

The ship they'd sailed upon been left to anchor a little way off-shore and a make-shift jetty had been crafted so that they were able to unload all their belongings and served as a convenient way for Eragon to get to and from his sleeping quarters without getting his feet wet. He had insisted that the elves all saw to their own places to dwell first and hadn't ever felt the need to relocate to the island himself. Perhaps it was because he felt the need for a little solitude or because he was unwilling to settle down. Either way the elves chose not to comment on his choice since he and Saphira joined them every evening round the fire on the beach; it didn't really matter all that much where the Rider slept.

Eragon stepped out of Lëyri's house and noticed that she wasn't among those lounging about by the water's edge. Generally the group scattered throughout the day, once breakfast had been consumed, to reconvene when the sun began to set, although she rarely ventured far from their settlement these days. Part of him wished he'd just gone straight back to the ship last night; he should've known that Lëyri would end up persuading him to stay with her. He'd only gone to tell her – for about the hundredth time – that they couldn't go on as they were since it was unfair to her, but as had happened every time he'd attempted to break it off before she somehow managed to convince him to stay another night.

The truth of it was simple: he did not love her. But no matter how often he tried to tell her, she refused to listen – she ignored it. To add to all the complication between them, Lëyri was little over three months away from giving birth to his child. Eragon's feelings towards Lëyri may only be those on par to what he'd felt for Nasuada and Katrina, but the child inside her he loved with all his heart. Saphira still liked to tease him about his reaction to the news when she was running dry on ammunition to tease him with.

His thoughts drifted across the expanse of water separating them and he wondered how _she _would react to his current situation. No doubt decide her plea for time proved the correct decision and refuse to hear him out on why it happened in the first place. Lëyri had come to him, not the other way around and at the time all he'd wanted to do was forget that which he'd left behind and for a little while she had been the answer. Only he couldn't forget. Blödhgarm and the other elves had long since given up – as had Eragon in all honesty – trying to get through to the elf that Eragon didn't really want her.

Saphira suspected that Lëyri knew perfectly well how Eragon felt and that she simply didn't want to give up being able to say that she was with the man who'd saved the world. Saphira didn't like Lëyri; and the only reason the dragon tolerated her was because the woman was currently pregnant with her Rider's unborn child. But Eragon had dismissed Saphira's dislike of Lëyri as nothing more than jealousy over the fact she had to share him with someone other than _her_ a long time ago.

Ever since declaring in no uncertain terms that she was pregnant, Lëyri had been insisting on her and Eragon sharing their true names with each other – on account of the child, she had attempted to explain her reasoning over why, because in the elven culture having a child was the ultimate vow of love. His excuse as to declining the proposal was that Saphira had said a flat out no before Lëyri had even finished her sentence; the dragon didn't trust her enough it seemed. Even without Saphira saying no, Eragon wouldn't have told her who he was anyway. Only Saphira, Glaedr and _she_ knew who he really was and he didn't trust himself with anyone else.

He was mildly relieved that Lëyri wasn't anywhere nearby right now; he doubted he could stand the bickering between her and Saphira. It was all they seemed to do at the moment and he'd taken to walking the forest on their island seeking refuge from it and he wasn't the only one. The other elves had all grown tired of the dragon and the elf arguing over Eragon night and day and many were bitterly wishing they'd stepped in when it became clear that Lëyri was out to claim the Rider as her own.

Aside from the squabbling between Lëyri and Saphira, the group all got along like a house on fire and the only arguments and disagreements were over petty issues like whose turn it was to help Saphira clean her teeth and who hadn't gone to keep the eldunarí company in a while. Petty arguments that were over as swiftly as they'd arisen. All save the one between Saphira and Lëyri. But he had more pressing things to worry about than Lëyri and their situation for once.

Blödhgarm spotted him and sidled over to where Eragon stood watching the sea. "I take it then, that your conversation last night didn't quite go to plan?"

Eragon grunted. He and Blödhgarm had become good friends over the past few years; that weary respect for another warrior had gone now that he wasn't in charge of protecting Eragon and Saphira from harm every minute of every day. "It's not like she doesn't know I feel nothing other than friendship for her," he complained.

"Lëyri doesn't seem to care all that much," the elf pointed out. "Because she has you at her beck and call on account of the child." Blödhgarm frowned then, "do you want to love her?"

The Rider sighed, "I've tried to Blödhgarm. Believe me; I've tried and tried more times than I care to admit to love her. The simple fact is that I don't."

"You can't force love, Shadeslayer," he said philosophically. "As long as you love the child, isn't that all that really matters?" Eragon shrugged in agreement. "Besides," Blödhgarm added, "I think your problem lies with a certain Rider and her dragon back in Alagaësia."

"Perhaps," he agreed. "But what good can that come to? When there has been not a word from them – or anyone else for that matter – in sixteen years? And when the child comes to question why I am not with Lëyri can I really admit to wanting to be with a woman I cannot have?"

"Does Lëyri know?" Blödhgarm asked after a moment.

For some reason, Eragon found that hilariously funny; "Doesn't everybody know?" He sobered, "She knows and hates me for it because it's not her."

"You do know that we were all taking bets to see how long it'd take the pair of your to come to your senses don't you?" Blödhgarm told him.

Eragon raised an eyebrow at him, "I do now."

"How the two of you continued to spar as you were despite all the sexual tension hovering between you both I'll never know …"

Shaking his head Eragon said; "What about all the times it was just the two of us in my tent? Nothing happened but I can recall a time when something could have easily of happened – if Murtagh and Thorn hadn't decided to invite Nasuada to visit Urû'baen that is."

They shared a small smile before the elf once again spoke; clearly he had a lot on his mind that morning. "If you don't mind me asking, why _did_ you two never … well … when you so clearly did?"

Eragon took a moment to formulate his thoughts; "She needed time," he told his friend softly, "only we had none." Blödhgarm placed a hand on Eragon's shoulder which he promptly shrugged off; he didn't want sympathy when he didn't deserve it.

They fell silent watching as a couple of elves waded out to the shallows and began to skip pebbles across the waves. "Will you attempt to end it again tonight?" Blödhgarm asked.

Eragon pulled a wry face, "Is there any point?"

_There is a point to everything, youngling._ Glaedr told them both.

_What would you have me do master?_

_Tell her the truth of how you feel._

_He has._ Saphira interjected. _She doesn't seem to want to take notice of that fact; it's far more entertaining for her to keep him miserable and devoted – so to speak – to her, especially when there isn't anyone here he'd rather be with and run off with._ Glaedr it seemed had no more words of wisdom to share for he withdrew back into himself and left them to it.

"There's something else bothering you Shadeslayer." His former guard said.

"Where are the hatchlings?" he asked. "Surely those eggs we left behind would've hatched by now? Unless – like the ones we have here – they refuse to do so."

"You don't think something's wrong do you?" Blödhgarm asked. "Back home I mean."

_Back home._ Yes, Alagaësia would always be home to them. "I don't know … something seems …" he paused, searching for the right words. "I can feel a tenseness in the air around us – like the world is preparing for something big; something major. Everything seems about three seconds away from breaking apart and imploding. Perhaps the dragons sense that in their eggs and are waiting for things to settle before emerging … I do not know."

"All seems well on the surface," Blödhgarm told him. "When I scry home, all seems well and peaceful."

Eragon shook his head as Saphira spoke, lifting her head out of the sand. _But scratch that surface and what will you find? A sense that something doesn't seem quite right: the smallest thing might be out of the ordinary and yet create a chain of events that cannot be undone. Something overlooked or missed or forgotten about because of irrelevance at the time bubbling to the surface and tipping the balance once more in the wrong direction._

"Meaning?"

"That we might not have eliminated all the threats and solved all the problems when we over threw Galbatorix." Eragon explained. He shook his head, "Someone needs to find out what's happening back home," he murmured half to himself before he trailed into silence, watching Saphira as worry and doubt gnawed at his belly.

"I will." Eragon looked at his friend.

"I wasn't serious."

"But it's necessary all the same." Blödhgarm insisted. "I can return and seek out Kings Orik and Orrin and speak with Queens Nasuada and Arya. I can ask them how fairs the land and send word once I have an answer for good or ill."

Eragon had tried hard not to blink when he had heard _her_ name.

_He speaks sense, youngling._ Umaroth the eldunarí said. _And if all is not well then we can return and put right the balance as we are wont to do._

"How will you get there?" Eragon demanded.

The elf grinned. "Magic, Shadeslayer. Magic." Eragon rolled his eyes.

"What? You're going to levitate yourself back?" there was a twinkle in Blödhgarm's eye. "But it's a three week voyage!" he protested.

"There are small islands – too small to inhabit – dotting the ocean out there; we passed them on our way here and you and Saphira have even visited the nearer ones. If I recall they are roughly a day apart from each other, more or less." He smiled, "I would be able to stop for the night and regain my strength while I slept. If you'll allow me to take an eldunarí or two with me then the journey might even take less time."

_It would work Eragon._ Glaedr told him. _Blödhgarm, if all _is_ well then Arya and Fírnen should accompany you back here. Islanzadí's daughter has tarried on the Knotted Throne overlong as it is; we all know she has not the patience to cope with the niceties of elven politics._

Saphira shifted at the mention of her long lost mate but otherwise – as Eragon had done – didn't let Blödhgarm see the names affect her.

"As you wish, ebrithil," he looked at Eragon. "When do you want me to leave?"

Eragon knew he'd been beaten on this and so gave up and relented; "Tomorrow. Let us not waste time. You can ask about the hatchlings – or lack of – while you're convincing the queen that Glaedr says she should abdicate." Actually saying her name himself, he decided, was too much.

"A task I am not looking forwards to," Blödhgarm grinned "No doubt she's giving Lord Däthedr no end to grief!" Eragon and Saphira watched their friend as he slipped into his house to begin preparations to leave for Alagaësia. If all went well, he'd be back in a couple of months with Arya and Fírnen.

_If all goes well and my dream was just a dream._ Eragon mused.

_And if it isn't a dream?_ Saphira asked.

_Don't ask me that – the prospect doesn't bear thinking about._ Eragon said shortly, _the dead are dead for a reason and no one should have the power to alter that._


	3. Free For A Day

**Free For A Day**

* * *

><p>Arya supressed a yawn as she endured yet another long day of irrelevant meetings and decisions and all manner of other meaningless tasks that never seemed to be done. No sooner as one responsibility was upheld and seen to, another sprang forth to demand her attention immediately. Her day was filled with the pointless and the unimportant. She'd discovered very quickly after allowing Däthedr and the rest to put the crown upon her head that her kingdom didn't actually <em>need<em> to be governed since it pretty much ran itself with or without her help.

And so thinking that she'd be able to spend her days with Fírnen, Arya had soon been proven wrong when it came to her attention that her time was filled with every dull and needless task. Those perfectly capable of making important decisions would always go to her first, ask her opinion and what she wanted done and then, more often than not, go ahead with what they'd originally planned in the first place. It was enough to make her want to throttle the lot of them, or else give up entirely and walk away; she was not cut out for the whole sitting back and letting others do everything for her. She refused to let anyone other than herself dictate the course of her life … it was why she'd fall out so spectacularly with her mother in the first place.

_Pay attention._ Fírnen chided.

_You're not the one who's stuck here listening to all this rubbish! Why do they insist on always asking my permission before leaving this forest? Do they honestly expect me to say no?_ She complained.

_They just want an excuse to see their queen,_ he smirked.

_I don't feel like their queen,_ she murmured to him.

_That's because you still see Islanzadí as queen._

Arya couldn't deny the truth of his words; her mother would always be the queen in her eyes. For as long as she could remember, she had run away from the decision of whether or not to follow in her mother's footsteps. Run away from it because she figured that so long as Islanzadí was alive and well, a choice never needed to be made. So she hadn't made it. Until that fateful day when the news was given to her, Arya had never, not once, entertained the thought of her mother dying. But she pulled away from that thought – of that day – because that would only lead to thought about _him_.

_She will always be queen Fírnen._

_What was she like?_

_Again? You've seen my memories of her countless times._ For indeed had she shared with him the scarily few memories she had of her mother and of everything that had happened before him. He alone knew _exactly_ what had happened during her time in Gil'ead at the hands of the Shade Durza … but she pulled away because thinking about Durza would lead to thinking about how the Shade had been killed at _his_ hand.

_But you never tire showing them to me._

_Let me send this idiot on his way first._ With a cautionary word from Fírnen to be nice, Arya surveyed the elf standing before her explaining why it was he was requesting permission to leave Du Weldenvarden. Arya hadn't heard a word of what he'd said. "The treaty I have with Nasuada and Orik allows you – all of us – to walk among the lands of the dwarves and humans unmolested. You don't need permission to go and see the world and I certainly won't deny that to you."

With a stammered thank you, the elf – Arya hadn't caught his name – was led out of the audience chamber by Däthedr and another was directed to take his place. She suppressed a groan; how many more were there? It was the first day of summer – the skies were clear and bright and cloudless – and she wanted nothing more than to be out there enjoying it. Instead she was shut away in Tialdarí Hall, sat upon the Knotted Throne – which had proven to be far less comfortable than it had always appeared – listening to unnecessary petitions from her people to go out and see the world beyond their forest.

"Däthedr," she called. The elf lord strode across the chamber and inclined his head. "Can you just bring them all in at once so I can get this pointless task over and done with? We all know that they don't need my permission to leave."

He looked slightly affronted over the prospect of overlooking the norm, but did as his queen commanded and ushered the rest inside. There was a rather hefty amount of them. Cutting across before any of them could speak she repeated what she had told the elf before and dismissed them less than three sentences later. She knew it wasn't the courteous way to have done things, but the endless repetition of _nothing ever happening_ was chafing her and she needed to be free, even if it was just for a few hours.

"I'm going to pay for not indulging in their petty requests to gain a private audience aren't I?" she guessed as her friend and advisor closed the door behind the last elf.

"The only reason they still petition is because it's possibly the only chance the common folk have of seeing and meeting our beautiful queen."

"You know flattery doesn't get you anywhere with me, Däthedr. I'm not my mother."

He smiled a tolerable smile at her, "No," the lord agreed. "You most certainly are not. You've held your position for little more than sixteen years and given me more grief than your mother did in a hundred." Arya allowed a small laugh at that.

"Can we at least begin to phase out these ridiculous audiences? It's time for our people to be walking freely around Alagaësia once more." She pleaded.

Däthedr sighed and gave in, "I shall see to it," he promised as Arya stood up and headed towards the doors out into the gardens. He fell into step beside her in a contemplative silence before uttering; "And?"

Arya stopped and turned to face him. "How did you know there was an 'and'?" she queried.

_Because there's always an 'and' with you._

_Shut up Fírnen._

_Yes your majesty._

_Fírnen!_

"Call it intuition," he smiled.

"Fine. _And_ I think we should look to start opening our own boarders now that Orik has finally relented to Nasuada's pleas. It's only a matter of time before they start on at us and we might as well set the wheels in motion now so as to speed the process along slightly." At Däthedr's look Arya sighed and said in a gentle voice; "It was inevitable my friend. I am not suggesting we allow roads and what not to be carved into the forest, but perhaps the likes of Ceris and Osilon could be made more accessible to humans and dwarves that want to visit?"

"And when King Orrin demands his people have access to Ellesméra?"

"Let us cross that bridge when we come to it." Arya advised as they stepped out into the gardens. Fírnen lifted his gigantic head off the ground from where he'd been snoozing in the midday sun and looked over at her, the question of a thought reaching across the distance between them.

"You're going to run off again aren't you?"

Arya, already halfway towards her dragon, turned on her heel and smiled up at the elven lord. "What gave it away?"

"Your choice of wardrobe; you'd be in a dress if you were planning on staying put." There was the faintest hints of disapproval in his voice and Arya felt twinges of guilt at so lightly abandoning who she was.

_And what about the fact that you abandon what we are every day you sit on that lump of twisted wood?_

_Hush Fírnen,_ Arya soothed. "I may be the queen, but I am also a Rider – and I was a Rider before you made me queen. Never forget that Däthedr."

He sighed, "How can I? With Fírnen Swiftwing lounging about the gardens as he does," this got a growl out of the emerald dragon as he shifted to his feet in anticipation of Arya clambering up into the hollow between his neck and shoulders which was her customary place. He shook his head, "Go; I shall hold the fort if need be it … 'tis a far too beautiful day to be wasted indoors."

Arya smiled at her friend; he looked tired. Walking towards him she reached up and kissed his cheek before spinning on her heel and running towards Fírnen. Leaping lightly onto his leg she sprang up onto his back and settled into place as he heaved his massive girth into the air with a single bound. _Why did you do that?_

_Do what?_

_Kiss him._

Arya shrugged. _I like to keep him on his toes … it's good for him._

_Is that just it though?_ Fírnen asked.

_Yes it is!_ She snapped at him, angry that he always assumed such thoughts whenever she acted a little differently around any man she was familiar with. _When will you stop pestering me about it?_

_When you admit to yourself that you have always loved him._ Fírnen shot back, spreading his wings out to catch an updraft and allowed it to waft them high above the tree tops.

_I am _not_ in love with Däthedr!_

_I wasn't talking about Däthedr._ That brought Arya up short as she realised Fírnen wanted to talk about _them_. In sixteen years, they had so far managed to avoid talking too much about _them_; it always ended up with Arya and Fírnen wondering if they had made the right choice in staying behind. Long periods – often years – would go by without _them_ being mentioned by name, if at all, until one of them initiated the somewhat dreaded conversation for one reason or another.

_Not now,_ she whispered. _Let's not ruin the day … please._

He was silent for a long while. _Tell me about your mother again._

Thankful for the change of topic of conversation, Arya recounted what she could recall of her mother and the infrequent times she'd spent in her company. She hadn't stopped that other conversation she knew, only stalled it until another time and she knew that Fírnen wouldn't let her wriggle out of talking about them next time; he would wait until she had nothing left to stall with and pounce. Truth was, she didn't like talking about _them_ – well _him_ – too much because he was yet another person she had lost in that war and another person whose absence was a constant ache in her chest. Arya hadn't realised just how badly she would miss him until he'd already gone … even now whenever something happened she automatically looked to see his reaction only to find the space where he should be empty.

If it was love then what was the point in admitting it when there wasn't anything she could do about it? He had left sixteen years ago and there had been no word of him since. The pair of them might as well have vanished into thin air and become no more than myths for all the good it did. Coupled with the fact that the wild dragon eggs weren't hatching and the sense that she was missing something important – something vital – Arya began to wonder if this peace they were experiencing was just a false sense of security. There were times when she could feel … something … building and building as if waiting for the right moment to implode. She knew that Fírnen felt it too for their meaningless flights had become not as meaningless as they searched the surroundings for anything out of the ordinary.

The only out of the ordinary thing was the lack of anything happening … or maybe that was just her not used to and not suited to peace. She'd grown up in war and in a world fraught with danger at every turn; knowing that it was perfectly alright to walk around what used to be the Empire unarmed and openly as the elf she was just seemed … strange and unnerving. Despite the peace she never went far without her sword or her bow close at hand. Old habits die hard it seemed.

_I wonder how the hatchlings are getting along._ Fírnen mused.

Two eggs had been left behind and given to the dwarves and Urgals in preparation for the first Riders of their races. Ten years ago the first, a violent purple egg, had hatched to an Urgal by the name of Yerzogr. As had been planned, Arya and Fírnen did their best to tutor them in the ways of their Order. With the help of the eldunarí that had remained behind, the dragon and Rider had been brought to Ellesméra for their training. Six months later the second egg – a hazelnut brown one – had hatched for a dwarf of Orik's clan.

Orik had escorted the new dragon and Rider to Ellesméra himself and for the next two years they had stayed in the leafy city learning what Arya could teach them. She was by no means a teacher on par with the likes of Oromis or Brom … and in terms of secrets only the Riders knew she could only scratch the surface for Oromis had let slip only a handful of the less important ones to her all those years ago. But she had tried and the two apprentices had appreciated her efforts which made it all that bit easier.

When the day had come to send them on their way to _them_, Arya and Fírnen had found it a rather morbid occasion. The hatchlings had thanked them and praised them and asked why they did not accompany them just for a visit. It had been difficult to refuse the suggestion. When the two dragons and their Riders had gone the world suddenly seemed so much emptier than ever before and it had come as a surprise to Arya and Fírnen to discover that they missed the routine of endlessly drilling the two young Riders.

_Probably learning secrets and branches of magic we never will._ Arya shrugged.

_It'd be nice to have another pair of hatchlings to teach._

_It would,_ Arya agreed, _but the only eggs that remain here are wild eggs. Eragon …_ she faulted over the name – _his_ name – and took a deep breath …_ he said he'd send more through with the spell I used to transport Saphira's egg out of harm's way when Durza captured me._ She was surprised that she'd been able to say all three names in the same sentence without her voice breaking.

_Only he hasn't._

_No._

_There will be a reason, Arya,_ Fírnen consoled. _By your own accounts of him, and from what I saw of him for the short time we met, he never did anything – or didn't do something – without good reason._

_Eragon's sense of good reason … _Arya shook her head, _was skewed somewhat by the simple fact of being Brom's son._

_You wouldn't have changed him for the world._ Fírnen told her very quietly.

Arya said nothing for a long time as they drifted among wisps of tattered clouds. _No,_ she agreed. _I wouldn't have change him at all._


	4. Thinking In Moonlight

**Thinking In Moonlight**

* * *

><p>Agitated and unable to settle, Eragon rolled out of bed and grabbed his shirt before leaving the cabin of the ship and making his way onto the deck where Saphira usually slept. However tonight she was off hunting in the bright pale moonlight and out of reach to settle his thoughts and nagging worries. Clambering over the railing, Eragon dropped down to the jetty and paced his way to shore as the sea swirled calmly and the occasional owl hooted.<p>

The dying embers of the fire were still glowing, and Eragon spotted the odd light through the windows of his friends' homes. He quickly ducked behind the pile of drift wood they had collected as the door to Lëyri's house opened and she stepped out, glancing around; her abdomen swollen as the child grew inside her. Evidently deciding that there was nothing to see, she returned inside and Eragon heard the echo of her door slamming and winced.

Skirting round the edge of the dwellings, he slipped into the forest unseen and pulled his shirt over his head. The ground was cold beneath his bare feet, and there was a definite chill in the breeze wafting in from the sea. Eragon shivered and veered to the left, heading deeper into the young woods as the dim lights of his friends' homes vanished behind him.

Blödhgarm had left three days ago and yet Eragon was still unable to shake off that dream. A nagging sense and worry was eating away at his insides and ever since his friend had left, he'd become more and more convinced that something was drastically wrong; that he'd forgotten to do something important before leaving. Like leaving a candle alight or a door unlocked … Eragon lashed out at an overhanging branch before slipping between two slim silver-birch trees and emerging on the edge of a cliff overlooking a shimmering silver lake. In the stillness of the air around them, the surface reflected the sky and if it were possible to walk across that surface, one might imagine themselves walking on the very edge of the world.

He paused for a moment, drinking in the simplicity and beauty the pale moonlight was casting upon the surroundings. Yanking himself out of his reverie, Eragon set off down the narrow path on the face of the cliff, careful not to slip lest he fall to his death. Half way down the path – well crack in all honesty – ended. Muttering a dozen short phrases in the ancient language, he dug into the flow of magic and let the spells take effect. Just as a gust of wind threatened to unbalance him, an irregular opening in the cliff wall appeared and Eragon quickly ducked inside the cave where he and the elves had chosen to store the unhatched dragon eggs and the eldunarí.

_You bring with you a worrying unsettling, young Rider._ One of the countless dragons' consciousness's said by way of greeting.

_Forgive me, masters._ Eragon murmured, _I could not sleep._ He began to restlessly pace the cavern, unable to sit still as a restlessness and an urge to _do_ something crept over him.

_And what is it that troubles you so?_ Another asked. Only a handful of the eldunarí chose to speak with the elves that had accompanied him away from Alagaësia. Among them being Glaedr and Umaroth; the rest chose only to converse with Eragon and Saphira. Eragon suspected – and Umaroth had hinted – that was only because they were dragon and Rider. He'd long given up asking who it was speaking; sometimes he recognised the touch of a mind from a previous conversation, but more often than not he hadn't a clue who he was speaking with aside from Glaedr and Umaroth.

_Is it this situation with Lëyri?_ Glaedr asked.

_Not really. For once I have more pressing things to worry about than what she's going to do or say next._

_A problem shared often leads to a problem solved._ His master told him wisely.

_Is that one of Oromis's many phrases by any chance?_

He got a sense of amusement from the old dragon.

_Can't you feel it?_ Eragon asked then.

_Feel what youngling?_ An eldunarí replied – Eragon thought the voice came from a rosy pink orb three shelves up and four along from where Glaedr rested.

_Can you not feel the tightness in the air? Like the world is tensing up and preparing for something major – something big? Can you not feel the earth shudder, as if afraid one false move with become a catalyst for catastrophe? Do you not also get the feeling that we've missed something … that we've forgotten something or someone?_

The eldunarí all shifted uncomfortably – or at least they would if they could – as they pondered Eragon's words. For a long moment no one spoke as he continued to pace the cavern; the lights from the flameless lanterns used by dwarves and elves casting the many gem-like stones in a warm glow that seemed to mirror the colour of the eldunarí.

_Do you not feel as if there is something we should be doing? Something we should be fixing?_ He asked, more to himself than to the consciousness in the cave. Shaking his head, he slid to the floor with his back against the rough wall and sighed heavily with his head in his hands.

_You sent Blödhgarm back to Alagaësia with Umaroth three days gone, aye?_

_Aye. If there is something amiss then we will hear of it in a few weeks or so._

_By then it may be too late._ A deep voice of one of the older dragons rumbled. _Show us the dream._

Eragon blinked as a few younger eldunarí stammered, _What dream?_

_I dreamt of Du Wydra Nángorörh._ Eragon murmured softly.

_Show us the dream Eragon._ Glaedr said then in a voice that allowed no deviation from that command. Eragon did as he was told and shared with the eldunarí the dream that had been bothering him for the past four days.

_It was just a dream … wasn't it?_ He asked when the memories were over. The tense silence of the eldunarí was unnerving him. _Masters … ebrithilar …_ _it was just a dream …_

_No one just dreams of Du Wydra Nángorörh._

_What do you mean?_ Eragon asked, the pit in his stomach extending into an abyss to match that of the dragons' trepidation over Du Wydra Nángorörh.

_It was a warning._ Glaedr whispered, _A warning that if the breach is not closed – and soon – then it'll be the end of all that we know. You dreamt of the event because the wards of the world sought you out in one last attempt to protect the living …_

_We must close the breach._ Another eldunarí finished as Glaedr trailed off.

Standing and walking to the opening of the cave, Eragon called across the night with the power of the ancient language in his voice; _"Saphira!"_ and then in his mind so only she could hear, he called her again with her true name.

_I come._ Came the distant reply and he shivered. They had discovered that they could contact the other over vast distances even without feeling the presence of the other's mind by silently uttering the other's true name. They had never used such methods of communicating after discovering it and only in times of great need had they agreed that they could. The need was great now, Eragon had decided.

_Where is this breach?_ He asked the eldunarí, _And how am I meant to close it?_

_It'll take us all to aide you; and as for the spells … we can teach you._ The rosy pink eldunarí answered softly. _The location of the breach should be simple for there is only one place in all this land where the two worlds meet._

_Du Garjzla Arget._ Eragon finished, _Of course … it would be there._ The Silver Light was the name given to the phenomenon that occurred once every seven years in the eastern reaches of the Beor Mountains. It was said that the lights were the wards of the living repelling the walls of the void and keeping death and the dead at bay. Some said that the lights were the souls of men hammering at the wall of the world, desperate to return while others claimed the lights were the souls of the dragons slaughtered in the Fall and in the Dragon War.

Though Eragon knew not what the spell were, Oromis had at least outlined the basics of them and what they did. One spell tore a hole through the two worlds while the other caused a bridge into being to link them together. According to Oromis, rumour had it that if both spells were uttered correctly and if enough energy and power was given, then whomever walked that bridge would have life restored into them. Only the Riders were permitted knowledge of these spells, and even then the spells themselves were forbidden to all save those spells required to counter and to reverse Du Wydra Nángorörh.

_Return and pack your bags, Shadeslayer._ Glaedr told him then. _Let your friends know of our excursion and hope that we are not too late._

Eragon nodded, already half way back up the path to the top of the cliff. He muttered the spells to conceal the entrance to the cave as Saphira alighted on the dewy grass behind the two silver-birch trees. _How many of you will be accompanying us, ebrithilar?_ Saphira asked as Eragon clambered up her scaly leg to his place between her shoulders.

_All of us._ Was the short reply. _Now hurry younglings … time is of the essence here._

Launching herself into the sky, Saphira winged her way over the young forest and headed back to the ship as fast as she dared while Eragon sought out the mind of Adiré; Blödhgarm's young nephew. Rousing the elf from his dreams proved somewhat troublesome, and it took three rounds of Eragon and Saphira calling _Wake up Adiré! Wake!_ Before they got a response.

_Shadeslayer? Bjartskular?_

_There is something Saphira and I must do and all the eldunarí will be accompanying us. I'm leaving you in charge of watching the eggs alright?_

_Understood Shadeslayer …_ Eragon could sense Adiré's curiosity and grinned. Elves were, by their very nature, a curious race. _May I be permitted to know where you're going … and why?_

_To Du Garjzla Arget._ Saphira responded shortly, _because of Du Wydra Nángorörh._

_Ah._ Adiré was smart enough not to question any further. _I'll let the others know when they wake in the morning._

_Thank you Adiré._ Eragon murmured as Saphira landed on the deck of the ship, causing it to rock gently in the calm sea.

_Shur'tugal … what of my uncle?_

Eragon paused, sensing the young elf's concern. _Blödhgarm will be fine Adiré_, Glaedr assured him gently. _Now let us get on; there is little time to waste._

_I'll keep an eye on Lëyri for you, Eragon._ Eragon chose not to reply to that as he severed the connection with Adiré. Blödhgarm's nephew had been pinning after Lëyri ever since they'd set sail along the Edda River from Hedarth all those years ago.

_When did my life get so complicated?_ He wondered as he slipped below decks to his cabin. Letting out a small laugh he answered himself; _when I chose to take the egg with me rather than leave it behind in the Spine._

_I'd have been very put out with you if you _had_ left me behind._ Saphira snorted.

Grabbing his pack from under the bed, Eragon raced round the cabin, hastily shoving everything he thought he might need into it, along with the few items he didn't want to leave behind; like the fairth of his mother and the scroll Oromis had given him. Pulling on his boots and grabbing an extra shirt along with his cloak, Eragon gathered up his pack and shouldered aside his door before heading down the corridor to the pantry.

Filling the rest of the space in his pack with food, Eragon tied off the top and pulled on the extra clothing, absently rubbing the ring, Aren, as he pulled on his old leather gloves. From the pantry he climbed back to the deck and back onto Saphira, slinging the pack over his shoulder as he did so. She jumped into the air, causing the ship to shake and rock alarmingly, before heading once more to the cavern where they'd hidden the eldunarí.

Muttering the spells again, Eragon watched the opening appear as Saphira expertly landed in it; he'd made sure that there would be room for her – and any other dragon for that matter – to visit their ancestors directly if they wished to do so. Slipping to the floor, Eragon headed to the back of the cave were he'd stored Saphira's saddle and armour. _Just leave it here,_ she told Eragon when he asked about the armour. _I'm not about to lug all that around on the off chance we might need it._

_You'll regret not having it with you if things get nasty._

_I doubt I'd fit into it now anyway._ She pointed out and he had to agree with her as he set about strapping the saddle to her vast back. While he worked the eldunarí began teaching him the necessary spells to close the breach between the living and the void. Lashing his pack to the back of the saddle, Eragon sat back and murmured the spell that would deposit the eldunarí in their own pocket of space a few inches behind him. It'd been a long time since he had been required to use the spell, and he'd forgotten some of the words. Glaedr admonished him accordingly and the spell was successfully cast. The shelves that lined the walls looked oddly out of place now they weren't filled with row upon row of different hued eldunarí.

As Saphira shifted round to face the opening, Eragon returned to the back of the cave and pulled out a chest, covered with dust. He hadn't opened it since the day he'd put it here out of the way, half buried under Saphira's armour. Murmuring "Ládrin," he lifted the lid of the chest and paused for a long moment, as a torrent of memories swirled round his head.

"_Now that you share our strength, it seems proper that you should have one of our bows. I sang this myself from a yew tree. The string will never break. And so long as you use these arrows, you will be hard-pressed to miss your target, even if the wind should gust during your shot."_

Eragon lifted the bow and the quiver out of the chest and looked at it for a long moment. That Queen Islanzadí saw fit to have given him the labour of her own hands was more of a gift than the actual weapon itself. He slipped the quiver over his shoulder and settled it into place with a few shrugs before turning back to the chest.

"_Are you well pleased, Dragon Rider?" Rhunön asked._

"_More than pleased, Rhunön-elda," said Eragon, and bowed to her. "I do not know how I can thank you for such a gift."_

"_You may thank me by killing Galbatorix. If there is any sword destined to slay that mad king, it is this one."_

Curling his left hand round the glyph on the sheath, Eragon lifted the sapphire sword out of the chest and stood up, closing the chest with a word. He was aware that Saphira was watching him, and through her, the eldunarí. It had been sixteen years since he last wielded this blade. Slowly and deliberately, he placed his right hand round the hand-and-a-half hilt and paused for a moment, staring at the sapphire pommel.

"_Sword, I name thee Brisingr!"_

With a sudden urgency, he wrenched the blade out of the sheath and held it up to the lofty ceiling, staring at it intently. "I remember thee, my sword … Brisingr." At the sound of its name, as it had done every time since Eragon had named it, Brisingr burst into fire. The flames licking his hand harmlessly and casting a flickering light upon the cave. He severed the flow of magic and replaced his sword into its sheath before buckling the blade to his belt. The familiar weight at his hip was oddly comforting, and he hadn't realised how much he'd missed it over the past years.

_Let us be off._ Saphira said then, nudging him with her snout.

_Aye,_ he agreed. _Once more do Eragon Shadeslayer and Saphira Brightscales fly out into the night on some hare-brained errand to save the world._

* * *

><p>AN : _"Now that you share our strength..." is on page 556 of the hardback edition of Eldest, chapter entitled 'Gifts'_

_"Are you well pleased..." is on page 680 of the hardback edition of Brisingr, chapter entitled 'A Rider In Full'_


	5. Old Friends

**Old Friends**

* * *

><p>The ground swept past them in a blur of greens and browns as Fírnen winged his way south as fast as he possibly could. Not for nothing had he been named 'Swiftwing' by the elves and so it was that by the time the sun began to set, they had left Ellesméra far behind. At Arya's urging, the great dragon continued on through the night for they couldn't afford to tarry when time was of the essence. A message on the scyring mirrors – Däthedr had finally managed to create a spell that circumvented Du Weldenvarden's wards enough for direct communication in such a way – had arrived from Ilirea that morning; Angela suspected that Nasuada would go into labour within the next couple of days and she would appreciate the assistance of a Rider in the delivery of the child.<p>

Arya and Fírnen had left within the hour, once again leaving Däthedr no choice but to hold the fort and make excuses for the queen's absence. To Arya, it felt as though she'd left all her responsibilities behind her in Tialdarí Hall; Angela had asked for a Rider and a Rider she would get. That the herbalist was currently at the capital didn't surprise Arya that much for the witch had a knack and a habit of turning up in the most unexpected of places, usually whenever something interesting was about to occur. It was only natural, then, for her to spring up in time for the birth of Nasuada's second child.

_Will you need to rest, or do you think you can make it there in one go?_ Arya asked Fírnen.

_As long as we don't encounter any headwind in the desert I should be able to make it,_ he replied. _I suggest you wrap up warm – it's going to rain soon and I want to fly above these clouds to avoid it._

_I'll be fine._

_You'll be cold._ He countered as the swirling white mist of rain choked clouds obscured their surroundings. A moment or two later Fírnen rose above them and emerged into a clear, star strewn night. _You can rest if you want, I won't let you fall._

_I know you won't, but wouldn't you rather I stayed awake and kept you company?_

_Rest Arya, and recover from all the politics you're forced to play with Lord Fiolr and his opposition._ Murmuring a word or two in thanks, Arya laid her head against Firnen's neck and closed her eyes as she drifted off into a peaceful slumber, up there at the roof of the world where there was only her and Fírnen.

The next day passed uneventfully and they managed to avoid being seen from the ground by flying high above the clouds that were threatening the earth with an early summer shower; intense but brief. By noon the forest had disappeared and they were lost in the expanse of the Hadarac Desert below. Up ahead they could see a sandstorm brewing and a brief consult with Fírnen informed her that the dragon intended to alter his course west slightly to avoid it. It would mean losing half a day, but Arya knew that couldn't be helped. When night began to fall once again, and the sand miles below had begun to give way to a more solid footing she asked, _Why not rest for the night here? We can be in Ilirea by mid-afternoon tomorrow._

_No. I can do this._

_Fírnen … you don't have to prove yourself to me._

_I can do this!_

She gave up and said no more, letting her stubborn dragon prove that it was possible to fly from Ellesméra to Ilirea in one go. A journey that should take at least six days cut down to two and a half due to Firnen's sheer stubbornness. _You should be called Stubbornwing – not Swiftwing._ He elected to ignore her, although a snort of flames erupted from his nostrils in protest. Unlike the previous night, Arya stayed awake if only so she could keep an eye on Fírnen and stop him from hurting himself too much. _I swear Saphira never caused Eragon this much grief, _she muttered.

_That was because she was too busy with all the grief he was causing her!_

_Why doesn't that surprise me?_ Arya asked dryly.

_Because he caused you just as much trouble?_ He replied.

Arya sighed; that inevitable conversation seemed to have crept up on her without her realising. And naturally – just as Fírnen had planned – she had no excuse to prevent it. _Eragon's sole intention in life was to crawl through it backwards – just to because he could. He had the annoying habit of choosing the hard way out of a situation and ended up dragging whomever was stupid enough to stand too close to him down with him._

_Which was almost without exception always you._

_Someone had to watch his back … and I certainly didn't trust anyone else to watch mine._ The night was cloudless and there was definite chill in the upper reaches of the sky; Arya shivered before twisting in Firnen's saddle and digging through her pack for her cloak. Wrapping it round her shoulders she wondered if Eragon and Saphira were out enjoying the night or if they were wrapped up warm in bed wherever that may be … almost without her realising it, Arya's gaze turned east.

Thanks to his stubbornness and unnecessary need to prove himself, Arya and Fírnen arrived in Ilirea a couple of hours after the sun had risen on the third day of their journey. Sweeping over the city wall amid cries of 'Argetlam' and 'Shur'tugal' and 'Shadeslayer' and wondering if this was how Eragon had felt whenever people had cried out those names to him, Arya instinctively gripped the hilt of her sword before forcing herself to let it go again; there was no danger here. Waiting for Fírnen to settle down in the vast courtyard before the citadel, Arya spotted Jörmundur emerging from the vast door into the stronghold; it seemed the man had finally succumbed to the hold of time for his hair and beard were now iron grey and he carried himself with all the dignity of a proud veteran.

Jumping lightly to the ground, Arya swung her pack over her shoulder and placed a hand on Firnen's snout as he rested his great head upon the ground and closed his eyes. She could feel his weariness and also his pride in getting to Ilirea so quickly. _You fool …_ _rest; I'll ask Jörmundur to make sure no one disturbs you._

_Not even Bjartskular could've flown here as fast!_

_Oh I'm sure you'd have let her win; just so she didn't decide to turn away from you!_

He let out a small snort of flames and Arya laughed lightly before walking over to Jörmundur as he reached the bottom of the steps that led up to the main entrance. "You made it; good … Angela will be pleased."

"Did she threaten to have you throttled or something if I didn't turn up in time?" Arya guessed, allowing her old friend to lead the way round the back of the castle.

"Something like that … I must say I didn't think you'd get here so soon."

Arya rolled her eyes, "Fírnen wanted to prove it was possible to fly from Ellesméra to Ilirea without having to stop and rest. The stubborn fool wouldn't listen to me when I said that there was no real need." At this Jörmundur laughed and opened a small door half hidden behind a group of young birch trees in the gardens; he stepped back and let Arya walk through first.

"There are hoards of minor courtiers all loitering in the main halls – desperate to be seen speaking with the Elven Queen. Since I was instructed to bring you straight to Angela I thought it best we took the servants' route." The veteran said by way of explanation as he shut the door behind him.

"I'm by no means complaining," she smiled, falling into step beside him. Their pace was slowed somewhat due to the rather pronounced limp in Jörmundur's left leg. Arya frowned, "What happened, for I don't remember you limping during my last visit."

He grunted as they emerged into a larger corridor that led to the kitchens. Servants of all kinds were hurrying to and fro and spared the intruders no more than half a glance. "I was thrown from my horse last winter and broke my hip; had this stupid limp ever since."

Arya couldn't help herself, "What were you doing to cause the horse to throw you?"

"He got spooked," came the short reply and Arya let it drop, although she still had a nagging curiosity and resolved to ask Nasuada about it later. "I'll make it known that Fírnen isn't to be disturbed – although I doubt anyone is going to be foolish enough to disturb a sleeping dragon."

"Thank you."

The rest of the journey through the castle continued in silence and when they arrived outside a burnished oak door, Jormundur bowed slightly before making his excuses and leaving. Shaking her head, Arya knocked upon the door. A moment later it was yanked open by a very irritable Nasuada. "What part of I don't want to be disturbed don't you half brained –?" words failed her as she realised who it was standing outside her rooms. "Arya!"

Nasuada threw her arms around her and pulled her into the room. Judging by the bulge beneath her dress she was still very much pregnant. "Now I understand why Jörmundur didn't stick around!" Arya laughed as the queen let her go.

Nasuada flopped back down on the settee she'd been lounging on, flashing Arya a grin. "I've been terrible these past few weeks," she admitted. "But thankfully Baldor has been seeing to all the petty details of running a kingdom for me."

When the time came for the villagers of Carvahall to return home – with Roran Stronghammer as the Earl of the Palencar Valley – some had remained behind in the capital. One such man had been Baldor; he was the younger son of the village blacksmith and Roran had asked him to stay behind as his representative in the capital. He hadn't counted on his friend falling for the queen and subsequently marrying her. He wasn't king, for Nasuada ruled, but rather her consort and deferred to her as his queen and his wife. There had been some outrage on the part of King Orrin in Surda, but Arya privately suspected that was because he didn't believe a woman _could_ rule effectively. Which was the sole reason Arya had yet to invite him to Ellesméra.

"I generally leave that to Däthedr." Arya admitted, sitting across from her friend and placing her pack on the floor. "In all honesty he's the true ruler since I spend all my time looking for an excuse to get away."

"You're a good Queen," Nasuada reproved. "And I seriously doubt anyone else would've gone against the wishes of the entire elven court when we signed that treaty."

"It wasn't the entire court," Arya protested, getting another laugh out of the other queen. "I've spoken to him about opening our boards by the way; if only because when you finally get round to asking us we'll already be moving somewhat slowly in the right direction."

"Oh good; you can't begin to imagine how much I dreaded that conversation with you!"

Rolling her eyes Arya gazed out of the window, noticing absently that it was a perfect view east. "Enough; I am not here so we can talk politics, nor am I here as the Queen."

"What are you here as then?"

"I am here as a Rider."

Nasuada smiled then, her hands resting over her swollen stomach, a true smile. "And how long have you waited to say that?"

Arya was spared answering by the door opening and in strode Baldor and Angela. Of all Eragon's boyhood friends, Baldor was the one that reminded her the most of him; perhaps it was because he still retained that sense of innocence that Eragon had once had about him – like he still believed, despite all he'd seen, that there was still plenty of good left in the world. Angela was the same as she ever was with the werecat trailing along at her heels. Solembum paused when he spotted Arya and she let a small smile cross her lips as he turned and darted out of the room before the door swung shut. Following the werecat's gaze Angela said: "He would always abandon me whenever Saphira was around too. Apparently dragons are better company."

Arya said nothing, aware that Nasuada was watching her intently. Much to her annoyance, Nasuada agreed wholeheartedly with Fírnen on the topic of how Arya felt about Eragon. Neither of them seemed to understand that she didn't want to talk about it for the simple reason of him not being here with them; why admit to something when there was no need to? Her eyes drifted to the window again and it was a moment before she realised Angela was talking to her.

"What?"

The witch raised an eyebrow. "If I didn't know just who you were, I'd have trouble believing you were a princess, let alone a queen!" She ignored Arya's confusion as she went on. "Well her waters haven't broken yet and she says she's not in any discomfort … yet."

"And?"

"You're not being much use!" the herbalist complained. "If I knew you were going to be this useless I'd have left you to sit on that pile of rotting kindling and suffer the tedium of the elven court!" Arya opened her mouth to protest but Angela was already marching out of the room as if she'd been given insult.

"What did I do?"

Baldor shook his head, "She's got some appointment with some old acquaintance in the city," he explained, "and she just wanted to check you were actually here before going."

"And she's probably annoyed she can't tell you off for being late," Nasuada added with a smile. Just then the door slammed open and two people came striding into the room arguing loudly at the top of their voices.

"That's not what happened you cur! My father heard it from Eragon Shadeslayer himself and that is _not _what happened!"

"Oh yeah? Well my mother was actually there you little –"

"Ajihad!" Baldor said sharply, "Ismira! Enough!"

Nasuada groaned. "What are you two arguing about now?" she demanded. Arya surveyed the two; it had been a long time since she'd seen them both … she last remembered two children running riot over Carvahall when she'd gone to visit one spring several years ago. Ismira had grown into a young woman with the image of her mother and the determination of her father, if her bearing was anything to go by. And Ajihad – so named for Nasuada's father – seemed to be about the age Eragon had been when she'd first met him; a man still clinging unknowingly to adolescence.

The two children – Arya refused to see them in any other light – fell into a sullen silence, before speaking at once. "Ismira says that Eragon Shadeslayer killed the Shade _before_ the Kull chief had his duel with your father!"

"Well it wasn't _after_ was it? Because the Urgals were all fighting themselves then weren't they!" They both looked expectantly at Nasuada, as did Baldor, waiting for her to resolve the conflict between them.

"I don't know," she said plainly. "I wasn't there when Eragon stuck his sword into Durza's chest. Arya was though; why don't you ask her – _nicely_!"

Arya swallowed. _Steady …_ Fírnen said softly. _You don't have to answer them._ For he had undoubtedly sensed the symptoms of anxiety flaring up inside her … it had been one of the lingering after effects of that war; along with the occasional nightmare of Gil'ead, infrequent panic attacks had crept upon her when she least expected it. Primarily when a question or query to do with Durza was dropped on her like this one was. _Just remember to breath …_ he advised, soothing her with memories of them soaring over Ellesméra at dusk, when the trees were bathed in the fading light of the sunset and snatches of songs drifted up to the through the branches.

"I honestly don't remember anything about Ajihad duelling an Urgal chieftain in that battle," she said, hoping they wouldn't ask her what she knew they would next. "Maybe you're getting confused with that skirmish when he journeyed to Aberon about a year or so before hand."

Nasuada nodded in agreement as Baldor shut the door that the children had left open. Sitting down on the couch either side of Arya, the prince asked, "What _did _happen when Eragon fought that Shade?" he frowned then, "What kind of name is 'Durza' anyway?"

"Surely you've heard the story before?" Arya asked, struggling to maintain control and not succumb to the anxiety.

"Not from someone who was there," Ismira countered. "And since my uncle and his dragon decided to abandon us all, we have to settle for your account."

_Arya …_ Fírnen's concern echoed through her as she closed her eyes and attempted to block out the cajoling of Ismira and Ajihad. _You're going to hyperventilate in a minute if you don't slow your breathing down._ Arya barely noticed when Nasuada shooed the children and her husband out of the room; she slid off the comfortable settee and hugged her knees to her chest as she sat on the floor.

_He's dead, he's dead! Eragon killed him; he's dead. He's dead, he's dead …_ repeating the words firmly in her mind as Fírnen's mind merged into hers, for once didn't seem to help.

_You'll pass out if you're not careful!_ But Firnen's warning came too late; by the time he'd finished she was already slipping into unconsciousness. Arya heard her dragon speaking directly to Nasuada, but made no sense of it. _Just let her sleep … it's not the first time this has happened and I doubt it'll be the last._


	6. I Broke

**I Broke**

* * *

><p>Drifting into awareness, Arya found herself alone in the room Nasuada had been lounging in when she arrived. <em>Fírnen?<em>

_I'm here._

_Where is everyone?_

_Breathlessly awaiting the announcement that the queen has a second heir._

_You mean she's in giving birth._

_That's what I said. _Arya shook her head and sat up, groaning slightly as the room spun. _Slowly … slowly … will you be alright?_ He asked as she got to her feet and made her way gradually towards the door leading to the rest of the castle.

_As alright as I'll ever be …_ she sighed and sagged against the nearest wall. _These attacks never occurred during the war; I never used to dissolve into a fit of terror whenever he was mentioned in passing._

_You couldn't afford to back then._ The dragon said softly, _and you never let yourself dwell upon him for too long either – nor did you talk about what had happened. By your own account you simply pushed it aside and carried on as if nothing had transpired._

Arya shook her head and pushed open the door, wondering where exactly she was going to find her friends. Grabbing the arm of a passing scullery boy she quickly asked for directions, smiling slightly as the boy hurried off before he got a smack round the ear for being late. Heading in the opposite direction, it didn't take her long to find a small crowd gathered restlessly outside the main door to the royal apartments. Not really in the right frame of mind to be quizzed by Baldor, Ajihad and Ismira about what had happened, Arya slipped through the servants' door round the corner and quietly closed it before she was spotted.

In comparison to her own suite, Nasuada's rooms actually looked as if they belonged to a queen; rich tapestries and opulently embroidered furnishings along with lavish rugs and animal skins draped across the floors. _Stop with the jealousy._ Fírnen told her; _the only reason yours aren't like this is because you refused to move into your mother's suite upon getting crowned._

_Shove off._ She told him, picking her way across the room to where the bedchamber was situated and to where the source of the noise was coming from. _I'm perfectly happy in my own rooms so why do I need to move?_

Fírnen withdrew as Arya knocked on the bedroom door and opened it. Angela wrenched it the rest of the way open and gave her a speculative look before beckoning her inside. "You're awake I see," the witch said as she let the door slammed shut.

"No, actually I'm sleep walking." A tired laugh from the direction of the bed caused Arya to look up at her friend, and flash her a small smile. "What can I do?" She asked, turning to the other women already in the room. Along with Angela there was Nasuada's handmaid and a woman Arya recognised as Baldor's mother, Elain.

"We're just waiting at the moment," the handmaid said, faffing about with some hot water and cloths. Arya nodded once, trying hard not to laugh as the young girl – she was evidently new – knocked the table over. "I'm so sorry!" she burst out, looking up horrified and probably expecting to be sent directly to the block. "I'll … I'll … erm …"

"Why don't you go and make sure everything is in order in the nursery?" Elain suggested kindly to the girl. She nodded, casting a fearful glance at Nasuada as she left the room as if the spirits of a Shade were at her heels.

Arya couldn't contain herself any longer and burst out laughing. Perching on the edge of the bed she knew that Nasuada had also found the event the height of hilarity. Angela and Elain surveyed them both for a long moment before they too joined in; their mirth was cut short when Nasuada groaned as the inner workings of her body did their uttermost best to expel the independent being inside her.

"Ouch." Arya muttered dryly as her friend let go of her hands.

"Well I don't think we have long to wait," Angela said clinically, "Just remember to push on the next contraction."

"I have done this before!" Nasuada snapped.

Arya turned to Elain. "When did you arrive?"

"A couple of hours ago," she replied. "I'd always planned to be here in time for the birth and since Nasuada doesn't have a mother I've been filling in, so to speak." Arya nodded as her attention was caught by a branch tapping on the window in the bedchamber; once again the view faced east.

There was no time for talk after that however, because it became all hands on deck as they did their best to aid Nasuada in the delivery of the child. Arya suspected that the task of allowing Nasuada to crush her hands had been given to her as Angela's way of revenge for missing most of the labour. As always there were a few tense moments in-between the child arriving and the child crying; all four women breathed heavy sighs of relief when a piercing wail filled the room.

"Can I have my hands back now?"

Nasuada laughed somewhat hysterically as she let go and reached for the swaddled bundle that the herbalist was handing her. "It's a girl."

"A girl?" Nasuada smiled and leant back against the pillows, cradling the child to her breast. Arya retreated to the back of the room as Elain went to fetch her son and grandson and let the citadel hear of the news.

Glancing over to where Arya stood, staring out of the east-facing window, Nasuada said, "So … Are you going to tell me what happened earlier?"

Arya closed her eyes. _There's no shame in telling people, Arya._ Fírnen whispered. _And it's not like you've kept it well hidden over the past few years._

_Does everybody know?_

_Most of the elves know yes, if that's what you're asking._

Arya turned away from her study of the eastern horizon and found both Nasuada and Angela watching her. She gave in and sat down on the edge of an arm chair with her head in her hands; at that moment the door chose to open and Elain returned with Baldor. At least Ajihad wasn't with them.

"I panicked."

"Anyone could see that; what I want to know is why?"

Arya shot Nasuada a look, and knew that – despite the baby in the room – she was currently the centre of attention. "Because I wasn't prepared or expecting the conversation to turn so suddenly onto the topic of Durza."

Sitting on the edge of the bed beside his wife, Baldor looked down at his handiwork and hugged both mother and daughter close to him before Elain spoke. "You never used to start panicking whenever he was mentioned before," she pointed out. "So why now? Why years down the line are you letting your time in Gil'ead affect you so much?"

Springing to her feet, Arya said agitatedly; "Because I didn't have time for a breakdown," she murmured. "Not back then. There was too much to be done and I couldn't afford to fall by the wayside when I was needed as much as I was. Especially by Eragon."

Angela was watching her, "I'm not surprised it's taken you this long to start falling apart; you all but denied what happened to you at that Shade's hand … sometimes I wonder if he did only torture you."

Arya snapped her gaze up at the witch, "What is that supposed to mean!"

"You know perfectly well what I mean."

Arya shook her head and turned away, _What did you expect to happen? It's becoming crystal clear to them that_ something_ happened in Gil'ead other than what you've told them._

_But not that!_

_Then tell them._

_You want me to tell them that if Eragon hadn't dragged me out of my cell when he did, that I would've betrayed them all?_

_But you didn't betray them._ Fírnen reassured her softly.

_I could've …_ Arya closed her eyes and sank back down on the arm chair again. "You want to know the truth? You want to know the main reason why I panic whenever he's mentioned? Do you really want to know?"

_They're your friends Arya,_ Fírnen pointed out, comforting her as best he could as she wallowed in her own inadequacy. _And no one else could've held out against him as well or as long as you did. No one could've protected Saphira's egg like you._

"I broke," she whispered softly, almost too afraid to speak the words aloud. "Yet to save my sanity, Durza left me be in my cell until he was ready to drag me before Galbatorix, for the king wanted me sane. It mattered not that I was given a respite from the torment because the deed was already done and I had broken." Arya spoke to the stone ground at her feet to save herself the shame of looking at the disappointment in the eyes of her friends. "I broke," she repeated in that hoarse whisper. "But I never got the chance to betray you. You have Eragon to thank for that."

The silence in the room was almost too intense to endure; even the new-born baby wasn't making any noise. Arya waited, tense, for someone to speak – for someone to reprimand her on her confession and to turn her away with the cry of traitor.

"No one expected you to remain silent." Nasuada said finally. "None of us expected you to hold out against the Shade and Galbatorix; we knew you'd never betray us willingly." Arya didn't dare raise her eyes from the ground, or to move, lest Nasuada took back her words.

_You're too harsh on yourself … they forgive you, don't they?_

At her dragon's words Arya lifted her head and looked at her friends in the room. "You've only told Fírnen haven't you?" the queen continued with an amused smile.

"If I had told my mother, she'd have had no choice but to have me dragged before the Knotted Throne in Tialdarí Hall and executed for treason there and then." Arya couldn't keep the bitterness out of her voice. "And I wouldn't have stopped her … how could I do that to her? How could I tell her that I'd failed her? I lied and that secret has been eating me up from the inside for almost twenty years."

"But you didn't." Angela said quietly, yet firmly. "You didn't betray her – or fail her. Or anyone for that matter."

"Only because Eragon –"

"Does it matter how or why you didn't? Only that you didn't."

The guilt that had laid upon her ever since waking in Farthen Dur all those years ago, began to lift from her as her friends refused to believe that she had done them wrong. Admitting that she owed everything to Eragon – and, admittedly, to Murtagh too – had been a strangely difficult thing to do, although she was glad now that she'd said it. The child began to wail then, a piercing yell that seemed to say 'hello? Pay me some attention; I'm new!' and the occupants in the room swiftly turned to the baby as if nothing significant had just happened – as if Arya hadn't just confessed to breaking and nearly betraying them all to the Empire.

_I should've made you tell them, years ago … _Fírnen mused.

_If I wake up tomorrow morning alive, _then_ I'll agree that this was a good idea._ She got the sense of him laughing outside in the courtyard and decided to ignore him as Angela, Baldor and Elain all crowed round the bed where Nasuada was staring lovingly down at her new-born daughter. "What will you call her?" Arya asked, standing slightly back from the crowd round the bed.

Baldor shrugged as Nasuada's face fell slightly as she realised she had the arduous task of naming the baby in front of her. "There will be time for that later," Elain said placidly. "Why don't you call in Ajihad and let him meet his sister? And Ismira?"

Nasuada nodded in consent and Arya quickly made her excuses to leave; Ajihad and Ismira would undoubtedly demand answers for what had occurred earlier and she was not in the mood for their antics. Lingering only long enough to bless the child with a few quick lines in the ancient language, Arya quickly slipped out of the suite through the servants' door. Returning to the lounge, Arya picked up her pack and then made her way to the rooms several floors above that Nasuada had said she could use as she wished whenever she visited.

Most thought it odd that she chosen rooms that were somewhat out of the way from the rest of the goings on of the castle. Arya however had liked the fact that the rooms were spacious enough to accommodate two dragons about Firnen's size. If she was honest, part of her had taken into account the fact that there would have to be space for Saphira as well – if she and Eragon were ever to return that is. Climbing the overly grand stair case in the main hall, Arya frequently slipped behind columns and statues to hide from various petty courtiers that were no doubt prowling around in the hopes of bumping into her.

"Ládrin," she murmured softly as she reached the door. It opened, creaking slightly on the hinges, and Arya slipped inside before anyone spotted her. Leaning against the door, Arya surveyed the rooms as Fírnen touched her mind and asked her to open the full-length windows so he could get inside. Dumping her pack on a nearby table, Arya swung the doors open wide and stood back as her great dragon swept into the room and settled down in the space cleared just for him.

These rooms at the top of the citadel had once been reserved for the Riders of old. They each somewhat resembled the tree-house in Ellesméra that Eragon and Saphira used, although not quite as grandiose. Taking the time to remove the saddle from his back, Arya kissed Firnen's snout before slipping out to the balcony and staring at the landscape in the light of the setting sun on the other side of the city.

One of the reasons she'd chosen this room was because of the balcony that faced east. _Watching the eastern horizon won't bring them back,_ Fírnen said softly.

_I know that. But I can't help but think that if I keep looking, one day I'll see them on the horizon, flying towards us … flying home._


	7. Politics

**Politics**

* * *

><p>The next day dawned with the same heat and lack of a fresh breeze. Arya tossed and lay on her back with the windows open and the light drapes wafting in the soft summer air. Fírnen was snoring lightly from his over-large cushion on the other side of the room while sounds from the city below drifted up to the Rider's room. Arya could hear merchants and shop keepers yelling their wears to anyone and everyone who passed by; someone was profession the news of the birth of the new infant princess; the sounds of a scuffle broke out directly beneath her window only to be stifled just as quickly by soldiers on duty.<p>

The sheets lay in a heap on the floor – Arya had thrown them off at some point in the night due to the stifling heat. She wore only a light sleeveless dress that fell to her knees and she'd shoved her hair into a loose plait – which had all but escaped its bond – before she'd fallen asleep. Sighing heavily, she rolled out of bed and padded on light feet to the balcony where she leant against the railing and gazed across the landscape laid out before her. In the bright sunlight of morning, the streets below were packed with inhabitants all going about their business while a sense of security and contentment and peace prevailed across the land. A sense that was echoed throughout Alagaësia, for even in her own kingdom and those of Orik's and Orrin's the overwhelming feel of freedom had conquered the land.

Looking directly down beneath her window, she had a view of the royal gardens. During the century or so that Galbatorix had dwelt here the gardens had been left to grow wild and untamed; the few elves that had remained or had journeyed to visit and live in Ilirea had soon seen to rectifying the issue of the gardens. Now they were on par to the gardens outside Tialdarí Hall back in the forest of Du Weldenvarden. Frowning, Arya took a closer look at the branches of a large maple tree and then let out a small laugh when she realised what it was she was seeing; Ismira was perched in the lower branches, hidden from view from the ground unless you already knew she was there. Even from the distance she was, Arya could tell something was bothering Roran's daughter.

Five minutes later she was pacing the paths and walkways in the gardens, heading in the general direction of the maple tree Ismira was hiding in. After pulling on a fresh pair of leggings and a plain vest, Arya had bullied Fírnen into wakefulness to tell him where she was going and left him be; apparently he still needed to recover from their flight although Arya privately suspected he was just being lazy. She'd left her sword and her bow in her rooms, but had at least belted on a dagger at her waist – just in case.

Reaching Ismira's tree, Arya cast a glance around before wrapping her hands round a low branch and pulling herself up into the boughs of the tree. Eragon's young niece had found a spot half way up the tree and seemed to be sulking about something or other as she leant against the trunk of the tree. Drawing level with the child, Arya settled herself on the other end of Ismira's branch with a balance born of one who'd been climbing trees ever since she'd learnt to walk. "May I join you?"

The girl shrugged.

Arya supressed a groan.

"Who are you hiding from?" She asked the girl, deciding to be direct rather than beat about the bush as her mother had always done.

Ismira flickered her gaze to Arya, "I'm not hiding."

"Of course not … how foolish of me for suggesting such a thing."

That nearly got a smile out of the girl.

"What's the matter Ismira?" Arya asked after several long moments of silence. "Why were you arguing so with Ajihad yesterday? I thought the two of you got on."

Ismira made to hug her knees to her chest, but evidently decided that she wasn't certain she wouldn't fall if she did. "I miss home." She said in a whisper and Arya sighed.

"Or is it more you're missing your mother rather than your home?"

She shrugged again and then nodded.

"But they'll no doubt visit soon enough – once word reaches them that Nasuada has had the child that is."

Ismira looked up at Arya, "But then they'll go home and I'll be stuck here."

"You're to marry Ajihad come winter," Arya pointed out softly. "That's been arranged since he was a month old."

"Exactly!" she all but yelled, starling the birds out of the tree they were perched in. "I didn't get a say in this; it wasn't _my_ choice!"

"What difference does it make?" Arya asked gently, "You love him don't you?" Ismira didn't answer, which Arya took to meaning that she did. "What difference does it make, even if this marriage hadn't been arranged – you'd have no doubt ended up marrying him anyway, wouldn't you? Or are you telling me you only love him because you have to?"

_You're needed in the council chamber,_ Fírnen interrupted. _Däthedr and Rhunön want a word or two about something urgent._

_How urgent is urgent?_ Arya wondered, but Fírnen didn't know. "Think about it," Arya said to Ismira then, "I have to go; one of the many disadvantages of being queen is that you can never escape your responsibilities no matter how hard you try to."

"I always forget you're a queen too." Ismira said as Arya made to clamber out of the tree.

She gave the girl a quizzical look; "Why's that?"

Ismira shrugged, "You don't seem much like one – and you're a Rider. That somehow seems more important than being a queen."

"You think?"

"Don't you?"

It was Arya's turn to shrug as she jumped down to the ground, landing lightly on her toes as she did so. _Where are you?_

_In the council chamber with Jörmundur and Baldor and your ambassador._

_Is Nasuada not joining us?_

_Your counterpart is otherwise occupied._ Shaking her head, Arya slipped inside the castle and adopted an expression she hoped would give the impression that her mind was on important matters, and therefore not in the mood to be stopped by petty insignificant courtiers. Striding along the corridors to the council chamber, a thought crossed her mind. It had been nagging at her for a while now, but for some reason it chose now to bring itself to the light and make itself heard.

_Do you think the hatchlings made it to Eragon and Saphira?_

_What makes you think they didn't?_

_I'm not sure,_ Arya admitted. _But it seems odd that Eragon wouldn't send more eggs through when they arrived – and you pointed out he must have a good reason. The hatchlings not reaching him would be a good reason enough, wouldn't it?_

_If they didn't make it, then what happened to them?_

_I don't know Fírnen … but I feel as if we're missing something important. As if the answer is right in front of us, yet we're unable to see it._ Arya shook her head, _ignore me; I'm just worrying at things that aren't there. _She reached the door to the council chamber and pushed it open, shaking the nagging thoughts from her mind.

An oval table sat in the centre of the room, with a fire place on opposite walls. Large stain-glass windows ran the length of the outer wall and about a dozen mirrors on stands at eye-level stood in a corner; the scyring mirrors used to contact people on the other side of the country. One of these mirrors was standing at one end of the table where Baldor, Jörmundur, the elven ambassador Vanir, and Fírnen were waiting for her. Lord Däthedr and the blacksmith Rhunön were watching through the mirror somewhere in Ellesméra.

"Arya Dröttning," Däthedr murmured as he saw her, touching his first two fingers to his lips and bowing slightly. As ever Rhunön ignored any semblance of formality, which caused Arya to have to hide a smile at the thought.

"Lord Däthedr, Rhunön-elda, to what do I owe this pleasure?" Arya asked as she took a seat beside Jörmundur, across the table from Vanir and Baldor.

"Lord Fiolr is stirring up the opposition," Däthedr told her, "He's got half the court convinced that you're unfit and unworthy to be queen – and that you don't take your position seriously." Arya groaned and let her head fall into her hands.

_You should've let me incinerate him when you had the chance._ Fírnen told her smugly. _No one would've missed him all that much._

_That isn't helping._

"What does he want?" Jörmundur asked.

"He wants Arya off the throne." Rhunön said bluntly, "and he'll quite willingly go to any lengths to achieve that."

"He wants to usurp me?" Arya demanded incredulously.

"But to even say such a thing is treason!" Vanir cried, jumping to his feet.

_Sit down älfa_, Fírnen told the ambassador and he did as the dragon said. _Ask them what they think you should do now. We can be back there in three days. I'll quite happily incinerate Fiolr for you._

_Hush Fírnen._ Arya asked the question to perhaps her only ally in the elven court and waited for his reply.

"I think …" he said slowly, no doubt unsure as to how she was going to react to his answer.

"I promise not to get to angry at your words my friend," Arya smiled.

He nodded once and opened his mouth to speak but Rhunön, evidently annoyed at how long it was taking him, beat him to it. "We think you should abdicate – before they dispose of you. This way, at least, you can maintain your dignity."

Arya spluttered at her words.

Jörmundur frowned, "But surely there aren't _that_ many people who oppose her in the elven court!"

"The common folk are taking sides; while you have an overwhelming majority support from them, with the odd exception all the family houses are allying with Fiolr. They believe you're family has sat upon the Knotted Throne for long enough." Däthedr said, looking directly at Arya.

"And where do you stand, Däthedr?" Arya asked quietly. "Does your house still stand by mine … or am I alone?"

He shifted uncertainly for a moment under her gaze before replying in the ancient language, "We stand by you, Arya Dröttning." He repeated his words in the language of the humans and continued on so that they could understand; "We stood by your father, and stood by your mother. If you so wish it; we can have our warriors arrest Fiolr and his conspirators this night fall … but we cannot arrest the entire court without an army nor would it be wise to."

"Give the word and we can have an army assembled to aid you," Baldor told her then.

"You'd have to ask Nasuada for permission first," Jörmundur cautioned.

"She loves Arya like a sister," Baldor shrugged, "if she were here the army would already be marching," he added.

"I can guide your troops through the forest to Ellesméra," Vanir offered.

They both turned expectantly to Arya who was staring out of the north-facing window, thinking hard. "Däthedr is right Arya," Rhunön said then, "You cannot arrest the entire court; and bringing in a human army will only prove to cement Fiolr's accusations that you are ignorant of our ways."

"How am I?" Arya shot back, letting the anger in her voice break through.

"I'm not saying you are!" the blacksmith growled. "But in their defence, you have spent more time away from us, amongst humans and dwarves, than you have with your own people."

Arya sighed again, and let her head fall against the table. "Who knew my days as ambassador and as the egg-courier would come back to haunt me? Have I not proven myself worthy to sit upon that throne?"

Däthedr spread his hands, "He's claiming that you're exaggerating your suffering at Gil'ead all those years ago and that how can we be sure you didn't break."

"Fiolr would've caved the instant Durza's whip first touched him!" Arya shouted, springing to her feet and knocking her chair over. "And I never betrayed anyone!"

Rhunön looked at her speculatively as Arya fought to wrestle away the panic inside her. She closed her eyes and let Fírnen temporarily take control of her body as he calmed down her breathing and racing heart. "You're terror attacks, as he calls them," Rhunön said then, "he's claiming that the stress of running the kingdom is too taxing on you and _that's_ why you panic."

"The kingdom virtually runs itself Rhunön." Arya muttered. _Thank you,_ she added to Fírnen. He rarely interfered with her attacks since they were in effect, harmless – but on the odd occasion he would, if the situation demanded it. She picked up her chair and slumped back down into it as the reality of her position hit her. "You really think I should abdicate?" She asked in a small voice, staring at her dragon while the others in the room – and in the mirror – stared at her.

"Yes, Dröttning," Däthedr said softly. "I think it's the only way. You can't afford to be disposed for it will not only be your reputation that is disgraced, but your parents' as well. Evander and Islanzadí would be remembered in contempt for bringing you into the world if Fiolr has his way."

Arya shook her head. _But how can I walk away? When she had taught me so much and trusted me so much to follow in her footsteps._

_Why are you so reluctant?_ Fírnen's question was echoed by Jörmundur. The old veteran sitting beside her was watching her intently, as were the others.

"Because all I ever did was fail her and let her down. While she lived I was never the daughter she wanted me to be; how can I walk away when I'll be letting her down yet again?"

_A dragon and Rider should be free to go where the wind takes them._ Fírnen answered, letting the others in the council chamber hear his thoughts too. _Your mother would've understood that Arya; she wouldn't have wanted you to lose your life over a choice such as this one. Not when there is a clear and sensible option available to you._ In private, so only she could hear he added; _You never wanted this anyway._

"So be it," Arya sighed. "I shall be Dröttning no more."

"But who will succeed you?" Baldor asked, "Does this Lord Fiolr seek the throne? For I do not believe that he'll be a good ally."

"I can write a document stating my abdication, and appoint my successor. The abdication process, does at least, allow for that. Tell you what; I'll date it two days before Fírnen and I left … can you lower the wards around ebrithil Oromis's hut, Däthedr? That way I can send you the document directly and you can leave it where a neutral party – Lady Gilá's house is still neutral right?" Däthedr nodded once. "Leave it where they can find the document."

"Who will you appoint?" Vanir asked.

Arya shrugged, unsure. "Gilá perhaps – or Däthedr." Her friend choked through the mirror and she laughed. "But my friend," she protested, "it was only a suggestion."

_You're going to nominate him just because you can, aren't you? _Fírnen said knowingly._ What happens when they appoint him and crown him?_

_It won't be the end of the world Fírnen. Däthedr would make a good king; that's if he can get over his insistence on subordinating himself to someone all the time._

_If … if has far too many possibilities for my liking._

_Get over yourself; I'm doing this for you._ At her words, Fírnen began to hum with satisfaction.


	8. No Turning Back

**No Turning Back**

* * *

><p>Arya threw the ink pen across the room in frustration, splattering the walls and her friends in emerald ink as she did. After the meeting with Däthedr and Rhunön, Arya had followed the others through the stronghold to the lounge Nasuada had been inhabiting in the last week or two of her pregnancy, where Nasuada, Angela and Elain were waiting along with the children. After explaining tersely what her two subjects had requested the meeting about, Arya had sat herself at the desk situated at the other end of the room, pulled a sheet of paper towards her and began to write up the document of her abdication and the subsequent nomination of Däthedr as her replacement monarch.<p>

"Anyone would think," Elain said, returning the pen to Arya at the desk, "that you were the infant; throwing things across the room like that."

"I'm irritated." Arya snapped.

"Anyone can see that," the woman said with an amused smile. "What's your problem?"

_Your problem,_ Fírnen answered, although Elain couldn't hear his thoughts, _is that you don't like to ask for help._

"Trying to word this correctly so that the document will be taken seriously." Arya shook her head and looked down at the page underneath her hand, which was covered in lines of glyphs – the Poetic Script – stating her intent and her will. "You'd have thought that my mother would've given me a heads up over how bloody irritatingly difficult it is."

"Yes, but you spent most of your time trying your hardest _not_ to listen when she try to teach you about such things," Vanir pointed out from his place on one of the settees. Arya glanced over and saw that it was his turn to hold the princess. A small pang of envy erupted inside her as Arya realised she hadn't yet held the child.

Nasuada's sharp eyes apparently caught her look, for she got up and pulled Arya to her feet and dragged her over to the cluster of couches and soft arm chairs by the fire. Pushing her down in an empty space, Nasuada scooped up her new-born and unceremoniously deposited her into Arya's lap. Somewhat startled, Arya gently lifted the child into her arms and settled her there, doing her uttermost best to ignore the smug look in Nasuada's eyes as the mother returned to her seat beside her husband. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders.

"You seem to be virtually done with the document," Angela said. Arya twisted over her shoulder to see the herbalist at the desk, evidently reading what was written on the paper. "All that's left is for you to sign it and send it on to Du Weldenvarden."

"I should've guessed you know how to read the Liduen Kvaedhí."

Angela laughed, "There is much you do not know about me … all that you need to do is write the closing paragraph and fill it with all kinds of ostentatious words that basically all mean the same thing … do you want me to do it? Or will your people noticed the change of handwriting?"

Arya shrugged. "I was going to get Vanir to write it out properly for me anyway so you might as well." She received several inquiring looks and sighed, "His handwriting is better than mine," she explained with another neglectant shrug.

"I am as ever at your service Arya Dröttning." Vanir said, rising to his feet and bowing.

With a little laugh, Arya said, "Once I've signed the thing, I will have no claim to that title any longer."

_Ah freedom … such a sweet feeling, don't you think?_ The child in her arms wriggled and squirmed, causing Arya to look down at her. Nasuada's daughter gazed up with bright brown eyes, before reaching out a tiny hand. _Why do you always go weak at the knees when you have an infant in your arms?_ Fírnen demanded with a huff.

_It's a female thing Fírnen,_ Arya said softly. _You wouldn't understand._

_Too right I don't …_ he almost sulked.

Arya let her mirth spread through their link as she continued; _Don't worry – no doubt Eragon would be as clueless as you are, while Saphira would understand completely._

_You females are rather temperamental things aren't you? With all your emotions running riot … and they get amplified every fifty-three days._

_It's twenty-eight in humans_, Arya murmured.

_Really? Why's that?_ Fírnen asked curiously.

_Do you really want to know the inner workings of a female's body and why the cycle length varies between races? Do you really want me to go into explicit detail about all that?_

_Ah … no – I think I prefer not knowing._ Arya laughed lightly as Fírnen shifted in his corner before lifting his head and holding it above the infant nestled contently in Arya's arms. He let out a puff of smoke, which engulfed both Arya and the baby before laying his head back down on the floor. _It's rather small … don't you think?_

_So were you when you'd just hatched. Shall I show you?_ Fírnen snorted and withdrew before Arya could tease him about how small and runty-looking he'd been when freshly hatched from his emerald egg.

"What's up with Firnen?" Ismira asked, looking over at the dragon from where she was seated on the floor. A small table sat between her and Ajihad, who was also kneeling on the floor busy setting up a game of chess for them to play.

"Nothing. I'm just teasing him and he doesn't like it."

"What are you teasing him about?" Jörmundur asked curiously.

Arya shrugged. "He doesn't like to be reminded of how small and puny he was when he'd first hatched. Apparently it's not good for his reputation as the fearsome dragon who's the mate of the great Saphira Bjartskular."

He snorted again. _Leave me alone! Eragon never teased Saphira like this!_

_That was because she was too busy teasing him …_

_What does that mean?_

_Nothing, Fírnen … just another one of those female things you don't want to know about. _Fírnen snorted once more before closing his eyes and pretending to fall asleep.

"I remember the egg; he must've been small to have fitted inside there," Nasuada agreed with a smile.

"He was … and the thing is it was only then that I appreciated how small Saphira had been when she'd just hatched for Eragon. That day we meet as two Riders, he recounted how she'd hatched for him and I realised how small she must've been … and it made me realise just how big she was compared to Fírnen."

Angela cleared her throat then and began to read out the document – Vanir translated it so Nasuada and the other humans could understand – so that Arya could decide if it was good enough or not. "What do you think," the herbalist asked, "of my final paragraph?"

"Clearly the best phrased part of the entire manuscript … do you think it's up to the standards of my tedious court?"

"If I had something read to me that was worded like that; I think I'd fall asleep." Nasuada grinned.

"Ah yes; but among my people, politics is an art that takes time and patience – which Fiolr has apparently run out of – and the very best, such as Lady Gilá's family, never let on which side their loyalties lie unless they have to."

"I'll write it up for you, Arya Dröttning," Vanir got to his feet and took Angela's place at the desk while the herbalist took his seat by the fire.

Arya returned the infant to her mother before getting up and absently going to the east-facing window. "I'll have to wait for Orik to arrive so he can witness me signing the damn thing."

"Why?" Ajihad piped up.

"Because no one is going to dispute King Orik and Queen Nasuada when they sign the document stating they witnessed my abdication."

"_That_ is politics; making sure that your opponent can't out manoeuvre you." Nasuada explained, before frowning, "Orik could be weeks away though."

Arya shook her head as Fírnen spoke to them all, _I spotted him about five leagues from the city this morning when I went to hunt. He should be here within the next hour or so … what will you name the child?_ He asked then.

They spent the better part of an hour suggesting names Nasuada and Baldor could use; Vanir's silence proving that he was hard at work copying out Arya's abdication document. Eventually the queen and her husband chose a name – which, typically, Ajihad decided he didn't like. _Orianah … yes it fits._

"I'm glad you think so Fírnen," Nasuada smiled.

"But it sounds like you've named her Orange," Ajihad protested.

"Not it doesn't," Ismira countered. "Orianah is a lovely name."

"Fine. Call her Orianah if you want. _I'm_ calling her Orange."

Nasuada turned to her son. "If I hear you calling her Orange, I'll have you take the place of the scullery boys!"

Ismira laughed as Ajihad glared at his mother. Baldor it seemed was trying hard not to join Ismira in laughing. "I won't …" he said as a knock on the door interrupted them. "Let you hear," the prince added as his mother's attention was drawn elsewhere. Ismira doubled over into a fit of giggles and Arya allowed herself a smile.

Nasuada's administrator poked his head round the door. "Forgive my disturbance, your majesty … uh majesties … but King Orik of the dwarves has arrived at the city gates."

"I'll go meet him," Baldor sighed before Nasuada had a chance to turn to him with a look of innocence upon her face. He got to his feet, and almost as a second thought, dragged Ajihad to his too. "Come along before you annoy your mother too much." Jörmundur had also gotten to his feet and after a quick glance at Arya, so did Vanir.

"I've completed the document, Dröttning," he said before following the rest of the men out of the room and leaving Fírnen alone in a room full of women. Not that he really cared all that much since Arya knew he intended to sleep through all the tedious greetings and welcomes and so on.

Glancing over at the desk, Arya surveyed Vanir's work and was thankful she'd gotten him to copy it out for her; she had not the patience needed to sit and neatly duplicate – or even write – something like he had. Looking back at her original manuscript, Arya noticed that her writing had started off half-way decent for about three or four lines before swiftly plunging into an almost unreadable scrawl. All she had to do was sign her name at the space left at the bottom of the sheet and she'd no longer be queen.

_Am I really doing the right thing?_

_A Dragon Rider shouldn't be weighed down by responsibilities; we should be free to do as we wish and act upon the commands of our Order as and when we must … and as swiftly as the orders arrive to us._

_I suppose you're right._ Arya agreed softly before turning her back on the desk and watching Angela, Nasuada, Elain and Ismira fussing over the infant Orianah.

_You're jealous._

_Of what?_

_The baby._

_Why would I be jealous of a baby?_

_No … I meant jealous that Nasuada – and all your friends – are getting on with their lives … settling down and having families while you're just …_

_Existing without much of a purpose._

The doors opened then, and the men returned with Orik and his wife, Hvedra. The dwarf woman went directly to Nasuada and the infant child while Orik clapped Baldor on the shoulder in congratulations and asked that some mead, which he'd brought with him all the way from Farthen Dur, to be carried up to celebrate the arrival of the new heir. Then Orik spotted Fírnen snoozing in the corner – how he'd missed the huge beast was beyond Arya – and then casting his gaze around, he spotted Arya and beamed.

He hurried over and ignoring several thousand clauses and subtexts and all other official documents stating and explaining and dictating what must be done when two monarchs meet, hugged her tightly as best he could, despite his short stature."Arch it's good to see you Arya!"

"And you Orik," she smiled. Despite being Eragon's foster brother, and as sharp and quick as Nasuada, Roran and all the rest of her friends were when it came to the topic of Eragon and her; Orik was the only person who didn't try to trick her into admitting something simply for the satisfaction of knowing where here heart lay. And because of that fact, Orik was the only person Arya had ever chosen to confide in – other than Fírnen, but he didn't count since they shared every thought and emotion anyway. Although all she'd said was that she didn't want to think about it because why bother when Eragon wasn't here and why cause herself potential heartbreak when there was no need for it?

As her mind had been drifting, Orik had greeted the others and been brought up to speed on the current situation of the elven court. "You're abdicating?" he said bluntly to Arya from the other side of the room. She nodded once. "About bloody time."

Arya couldn't help herself when she laughed slightly at his words. "Enough; come both of you and let me be queen no longer."

And so, with Nasuada and Orik peering over her shoulder Arya sat down at the desk while Angela formerly read out the document and then handed it to her to sign. Why and when they'd chosen Angela to read it out none of them quite knew but for some reason it seemed fitting that she should act as the speaker.

"_And I hereby sign my name alongside the names of those chosen to witness my resignation and upon signing will I no longer be as of that moment the chosen to sit and act upon the Knotted Throne and shall give up my claim to be such a person along with the titles and privileges that are associated with the station. Thus do I sign as …_" Angela looked up and grinned before handing Arya the document and the ink pen she'd thrown across the room earlier.

Somewhat self-conscious of everyone watching, and well aware that was the whole point, Arya glanced once at Fírnen, who had one eye open, watching before dropping her gaze to the blank space at the bottom of the sheet. For a moment she hung in the balance over what to add after 'Arya' but then her dragon made her mind up for her. And she wrote at the bottom her name and left it at that.

She handed the pen to Nasuada who hastily scribbled her own name and title before passing it over to Orik who, upon finishing, handed it back to Angela so she could read it aloud. While Orik had taken lessons in how to read and write in the elven tongue during the time he'd spent in Ellesméra while Eragon and Saphira had been training, Nasuada had clearly learnt in the time since she'd taken control of what was the Empire.

"_Thus do I sign as Arya Islanzadísdaughter; and as my deed is witnessed by Queen Nasuada, Daughter of Ajihad and by King Orik, Son of Thrifk am I hereby no longer the ruling monarch of Du Weldenvarden._" Angela carefully handed the document back to Arya, who rolled it up and sealed it by dripping hot wax onto it. Unlike the dwarves or humans, elves saw no need to place an identifying mark on the seal.

Stabbing into the flow of magic, Arya cast the spell she'd once uttered in desperation, and watched as the scroll disappeared with a blinding flash of emerald light. She knew it had arrived in the grass expanse outside Oromis's hut for she had a brief glimpse of that landscape as her magic deposited the document down. There was no turning back now. _Freedom at last … how strange it is._

* * *

><p>AN : _Yes, I stole the 'Freedom at last' line from the Les Miserable film/stage-show. It seemed to fit._


	9. Righting The Wrong

**Righting The Wrong**

* * *

><p>Far below, they spotted a blight in the landscape. Whereas the surrounding land was lush and full of life in the shadow of the Beor Mountains, this patch of land that Saphira was now circling seemed almost … dead. <em>Could that be …? <em>Eragon wondered, staring at the blemish below – it looked almost like an ugly disease that was starting to spread across the land so recently torn apart by a war that had lasted a century.

_Land and let us find out,_ Glaedr suggested. _But be careful, Shadeslayer … Brightscales._

_Yes master._

Drifting cautiously to the ground, Saphira tilted her wings as Eragon reached out with his mind to his surroundings, trying to determine if anyone or anything was about. However no shred of life, not one minuscule glimmer, remained in that spot around a lonely hill on the eastern most edge of the Beor Mountains. As she landed, a small puff of dust rose and was seized away by the breeze of early summer. Despite the height of the midday sun, the fact that the mountains were yet to cast a shadow and the absence of any whiff of clouds in the sky, Eragon shivered.

As he jumped down from Saphira's back, he glanced around wondering where this breach was supposed to be. In the back of his mind he sensed the collective minds of the eldunarí searching and watching and waiting. As he began to make his way to the crest of the small hill, he once again ran though his mind the overly complex and slightly twisted spell that Glaedr had painstakingly taught to him during the three weeks since he'd left the island and the elves.

_I don't see anything out of the ordinar-_

He broke off mid-sentence as he reached the top of the hill. From the sky above it was virtually invisible to see for the crack – the breach, the rupture – between their world and the next had no depth comprehensible or possible. He stood with the hairs on the back of his neck and on his arms rising up as fear and awe settled over him in a cold flush. It was … full of possibilities too disastrous and awful to bear thinking about, yet the unknown gave him an oddly perverse desire to find out more; to yield to his curiosity and excitement and take that unimaginable step forwards … forwards into that light … so bright and so full … who knew what adventures – what lay beyond? All he wanted was a look … a glimpse … one little peek –

_Eragon!_

If it wasn't for Saphira and the awareness's of dragons long gone, Eragon might well have taken that fateful step forwards.

_You would not be dead; and not being dead would mean you could not come back. How can that path bring you life if you already have it? How can it send you away if you are not meant to be there? You would be trapped in the land of the dead but you would be alive … and you would not die._

Eragon shuddered as the dragon's mind withdrew. He hadn't known who it was, although he suspected it had been a wild dragon in life; wild and free and not at all afraid of anything other than death and the beyond. He retreated several steps and it was then that he noticed the rotting corpse of an earthy brown dragon and a dwarf.

Alarmed, Eragon dropped to one knee beside them; there were no wounds, no marks of battle … nor did he recognise the dragon and the Rider. It seemed that they had drained themselves of all energy – even that of their life-force – and had perished from exhaustion. Eragon wondered if they had been the ones to tear apart reality … then he dismissed the thought for where could they have learnt such a possibility from? _She _didn't know of it; of all the secrets Oromis had let slip to her, Eragon knew he'd never let this one out to someone who wasn't a Rider.

And all the while he had his back turned to the gap, he could not shake the feeling it was watching him and that it knew exactly what he was there to do; as if it was silently preparing itself to fight him tooth and nail to remain open. Eragon wondered how many of the dead had escaped through into life … images of people, half rotting and not quite dead or alive, roaming the streets of Dras Leona flashed across his mind and he shuddered.

Unless that second spell – the one designed to create a pathway to restore life – had actually worked of course … then there would be no not-quite-dead people roaming Alagaësia. Only fully alive people whose design and purpose was anyone's guess and everyone's concern … fully alive people who knew what death was like and who had no intention of returning there any time soon … and only the breach itself knew just who had been set free … his gut clenched as a list of names of those he definitely _didn't_ want back echoed through his mind.

… _Galbatorix … Durza … Morzan … Kialandí … Formora … Varaug …_

Though he'd never met any of the Forsworn, their reputations and the stories and tales of the horror they'd inflicted at Galbatorix's command was enough to cause him dread; the names of Murtagh's father and of the two who'd broken his master were among the names that would forever be feared throughout all of Alagaësia. Eragon suspected also that, without _her_ at his side he'd not survive an encounter with another Shade – be it one he'd already killed or helped kill or otherwise.

_Now we know what happened to the hatchlings. Whoever used the Forbidden Spells must've intercepted them when they were sent to us after completing their training in Ellesméra. _Saphira nudged the carcasses and lifted her head so her eye was on level with Eragon before adding, _they must have thought that they'd reached us. Otherwise they'd have contacted us long ago._ The dragon – smaller by far than Saphira – looked roughly to be around ten years or so of age … or at least it had been when alive.

Eragon nodded, his gaze turning once again to the dwarf and his dragon. _Once the breach is closed, we must burry them in stone. Else the dwarf's spirit won't reach his ancestors … I wonder what clan he was of_.

Getting to his feet and dusting off his trousers, Eragon turned once more to the reason he was here along with all the eldunarí; Du Wydra Nángorörh. The breach flexed threateningly at him as it began to convulse and flare – the blinding light reaching out beyond the borders of that crack as something began to happen on the other side. And he was supposed to _close _that? The task ahead seemed nearing on impossible … yet it must be possible for reality had been split had it not? Whoever it was who'd cast those Forbidden Spells had achieved the impossible so what's to say he couldn't?

_Ready?_ He asked, secretly hoping that Saphira and her brethren would say no.

_When you are little one._

Eragon squared his shoulders and took a deep breath as he dug into the flow of magic, joined and merged his mind first with Saphira, and then through her, the eldunarí. With the full might of the race of the dragons behind him, Eragon began to chant in a clear loud voice the words, phrases, formulas and sequences that would undo what had been done to the world; words that had the power to reverse Du Wydra Nángorörh … words that hadn't been uttered in millennia … not since the time of the Grey Folk.

He never could recall how long he spoke, how many times he had to repeat his mantra, but slowly … incredibly … reluctantly … that opening to the void began to fold in on itself and seemingly collapse inwards. Though it fought him – forcing him to commit more and more of the precious resources of energy from the eldunarí in his efforts to close and end what should never have been done and begun in the first place. At the point where the crack had shrunk and sunk into a dense blot hanging in the sky like a terrifying mockery of the sun, it seemed to stare at him with scorn as it flared spitefully again; he staggered and fell upon the ground writhing in agony as his back erupted into a torment of pain unlike any he'd endured since the days he'd been haunted by Durza's curse.

A soundless howl escaped his lips.

He knew not what happened …

… insanity seemed to reign upon that hilltop …

… Saphira roared and threw herself into the sky …

… the eldunarí jabbered and screamed and several let out feats of inexplicable magic – shattering most of them into dust …

… Glaedr called out to someone …

… two shadows of light erupted from the point where the edges of the crack all folded together and met …

… the breach collapse in on itself and the radiating soundless explosion flattened the surrounding dead land …

… the magic released him …

… he lay on the ground, his arms curled round his knees, covered in dust, trembling from head to foot …

… the echo of Durza's curse ripping him apart all over again …

… he couldn't …

… didn't know …

… anything …

… who was he …

… _what_ was he?

_Soon afterwards Eragon fell victim to three bouts of agony while fighting Vanir and then two more during the Rimgar. As he uncurled from the clenched ball he had rolled into, Oromis said, "Again Eragon. You must perfect your balance." _

_Eragon shook his head and growled in an undertone, "No," he crossed his arms to hide his tremors._

_"What?"_

_"No."_

_"Get up, Eragon, and try again."_

_"No! Do the pose yourself; I won't." _

_Oromis knelt beside Eragon and placed a cool hand on his cheek. Holding it there, he gazed at Eragon with such kindness, Eragon understood the depth of the elf's compassion for him, and that, if it were possible, Oromis would willingly assume Eragon's pain to relieve his suffering. "Don't abandon hope," said Oromis. "Never that." A measure of strength seemed to flow from him to Eragon. "We are the Riders. We stand between the light and the dark and keep the balance between the two. Ignorance, fear, hate: these are our enemies. Deny them with all your might Eragon or we will surely fail." he stood and extended a hand towards Eragon. "Now rise, Shadeslayer, and prove you can conquer the instincts of your flesh!"_

_Eragon took a deep breath and pushed himself on one arm, wincing from the effort. He got his feet underneath himself, paused for a moment, then straightened to his full height and looked Oromis in the eye. _

_The elf nodded with approval._

He was standing, his chest heaving and his fists clenched tightly, staring with a stubborn acceptance and understanding. Oromis stood before him, staring at Eragon like he would an equal … like he would a son … pride etched upon the old Rider's timeless face as he placed a hand on Eragon's shoulder.

The sound of a sword being drawn startled Eragon, and he staggered back as Oromis pushed him aside, spinning to meet whoever it was; he'd grabbed Brisingr from the sheath at Eragon's hip and met the blow from the thin steel blade with a wire-thin scratch curving down the middle. Twice more was Oromis able to meet that blade and counter it, before he staggered on the uneven ground and fell. Eragon seized his sword, the weight familiar to him like the hand of an old friend or the touch of a lover that was forever in the heart.

He swung Brisingr round faster than Oromis could, with a confidence of one whose hands had actually _made_ the sword. He was weak from the drain of the spell to close the breach, from the torment of his spontaneous fit and from having spent the past three weeks lacking in sleep as he and Saphira had journeyed as fast as they could to get to where they were. Yet he managed, somehow, to hold his own against the owner of the sword. His gaze flickered up and he nearly lost all concentration as shock and dread filled him – he knew that face.

"Durza."

The Shade flinched as Eragon spoke his name and snarled. Yet it seemed death had weakened him as it had Oromis – for no attack came at Eragon on his mind, and nor did he think he was capable of maintaining one himself. "You've gotten stronger," he acknowledged reluctantly before slipping his sword past Eragon's and slicing him across his bicep, forcing Eragon to switch hands. He lunged somewhat blindly and felt Brisingr bite into the Shade's flesh as it sunk into Durza's chest … missing the black heart by inches.

As had happened when Murtagh shot him through the head, Durza dissolved into a smoky wisp and fled to reform someplace else, at some time in the near future. Eragon let Brisingr slip from his fingers as he dropped to the ground, exhausted.

_Saphira,_ he wondered, _where are you?_

* * *

><p>AN : _'soon afterwards Eragon fell' is on page 401 of the hardback edition of Eldest, the chapter titled 'The Oblitorator' _


	10. By The Campfire

**By The Campfire**

* * *

><p>The fire was crackling merrily and hissed as Eragon dumped another branch into its depths; he was too impatient for the flames to become hot enough to cook for he was ravenous. Across the fire sat Oromis, who in contrast to Eragon, was waiting patiently despite the fact he was no doubt as hungry as the young Rider on account for not having eaten anything since he'd died. Eragon and Saphira – and the eldunarí that had survived, which thankfully included Glaedr – were all awaiting an explanation for what had occurred on that hilltop. Oromis it seemed was in no hurry to offer one.<p>

While he was over joyed at his master's return, he couldn't help but feel a nagging sense of disappointment – why couldn't his father have come back instead?

"Because you don't need him." Eragon blinked and looked up across the fire.

"What?"

"Your thoughts are written across your face Eragon." The Rider told him with a gentle smile, "Now whether that's just due to your exhaustion – to laziness or to the fact that death brings all kinds of enlightenments, I do not know …" he shrugged, "But in answer to your poorly phrased query; Brom did not walk the path as I did because you no longer need him there to guide your steps and to catch you if you should stumble. Because you have proved yourself a man who needs not his father's protection. He'd only be in your way, if he was to return … only a bystander."

A lump of emotion formed in Eragon's throat, and he swallowed. "Not a bystander never that, ebrithil …" he whispered, before amending, "but maybe a provider of a hoard of unnecessary advice and criticism."

Saphira hummed in amusement to that as Oromis allowed himself a wry smile. "Let it alone," he chided as Eragon tugged at the strip of coarse cloth tied round his upper right arm in the form of a crude bandage. He'd had no strength left to heal the wound with magic so Oromis had sewn it shut instead, he himself having just enough energy required to transform a small glob of copper they found in the ground into a needle. "Else it'll take twice as long to heal."

"Yes master."

Oromis surveyed him over the fire, his long fingers knitted together and his face unreadable. Finally he stirred, "In theory we ought to be spending the time while the fire heats to hand out explanations to one another … yet if you two prefer silence then so be it."

Eragon shifted, but it was Saphira who responded. _And prey tell what you would do in our situation master? When one you practically watched die – he whom taught you near enough all that's kept you alive these past years – stands tall once more having shaken of death so casually … do you not expect silence as the unimaginable is attempted to be understood?_

"I expect nothing less – but there was no mere accident that today brought us all together once more. While I can understand you surprise and your shock, what you must understand is that this is far from over. You understand the theory of Du Wydra Nángorörh – let that be enough of an explanation for now, please … there are more urgent topics to discuss."

"But no one called you through," Eragon protested. "I understand the theory enough yes; enough to know that you must call one through else they will not come."

His master sighed. "Yes. I know. As it happens I _was_ called through – although not by any purpose or design but by accident …" the elf stared long and hard into the flames. "The one whom was meant to come back, the reason Du Wydra Nángorörh was uttered in the first place, _you_ so utterly destroyed when you killed him that the void would not yield him."

Eragon frowned, his master's oddly twisted way of phrasing things forcing him to actually _think_ about what had just been said. "Someone uttered the Forbidden Spells to bring back Galbatorix … and you're saying that he did not come."

"No. He did not. Another slipped through in his stead."

"Who?"

"Morzan."

A cold hand seemed to clutch at his gut and twist it into an ugly knot. Why Morzan? Why his father's most hated enemy? The man his father had once loved as a brother … of all the Forsworn to return why did it have to be Galbatorix's most loyal and devoted disciple?

_Who called you through ebrithil?_ Saphira asked then, lifting her head off the ground and staring at their master even as he stared into the fire.

"In the chaos that ruled upon the hill in the few moments before the breach collapsed and closed, did insanity not domain? I heard my name echo through the tear between the worlds and let it guide me out; there was only one who _could_ call through to me for he is the only living awareness or being that knows – or knew – who I was and am." Eragon lifted his gaze and met that of his master's as comprehension dawned. He had heard that cry, but not made any sense of it in the midst of his spontaneous fit.

"Glaedr."

Yet the dragon had made no attempt to contact his Rider; Eragon suspected he wasn't quite sure what to be thinking and feeling. That and he knew their bond was never going to be what it had once been; after so many years separation – one in death and the other trapped in his own mind – to be reconciled again was no easy feat, even if they had once inhabited each other as completely and utterly as Eragon and Saphira did.

_You said that death brings enlightenment, Oromis_. One of the surviving eldunarí said then, reaching out to both Riders and the dragon. _Do you know who is responsible for such a crime as this? For threatening the safety of all that dwell here in this world?_

"Murtagh and Thorn."

"What!" Eragon leapt to his feet, "But he broke free of Galbatorix! He helped … helped to slay Shruikan and win the battle … no … no, master, you've got it wrong." Whether or not Oromis knew that he'd had to alter his sentence to avoid uttering _her_ name or not was of little importance. All Eragon knew was that Murtagh – his brother – could not have done this.

"Sit down Eragon; and let us talk." Eragon sat, although he could not bring himself to accept what his master had just said – at least not yet.

_Do you believe it?_

_I don't know … it seems unlikely for they _did_ break free from the restraints and oaths they were bound with. I cannot see them wanting to bring back that mad king for he would surely reward their efforts by binding them again all the tighter._

Oromis watched them both as they turned their attention and focus upon him. "Before we being let me tell you that I am aware of everything that has occurred since my demise. You cannot hide from the dead …" he shook his head, "let me see if I can explain this … suffice to say that I haven't witnessed it as such – as in the void is not merely a land filled with windows through which to watch the `events of this one … yet nor is it that I have been told of the events like a narrative; I simply _know_ what has happened."

With a wry smile Eragon said, "You realise that makes no sense, ebrithil? But I shall take your word for it and let you continue," he added.

The elf nodded, his attention once again upon the flickering flames as he ordered his thoughts and pondered what to say next. For a long moment he said nothing then; "I do not know how he discovered the Spells, nor why he uttered them … I can only assume it is some design long planned before Galbatorix's death. But for whatever reason is irrelevant at this moment. Know this then; the eggs that you left here in Alagaësia hatched roughly ten years ago now to a dwarf and to an Urgal. As you'd no doubt planned, Arya and Fírnen –"

"You know about that then?" Eragon couldn't help interrupt. Oromis gave him a calculated look, rebuking him for interrupting so. "Forgive me," Eragon murmured.

On the contrary Oromis just seemed amused; "I have already told you; I _know_ of the events that have taken place – do not ask me how I know, but I do know." He frowned and returned to his earlier trail of thought, "Arya and Fírnen taught them best they could with what little knowledge they have and a year or so later, maybe as much as eighteen months, the hatchlings were sent to join you and Saphira and the other elves in the east."

_Only they did not arrive_. Glaedr murmured then, Oromis looked up sharply at his dragon's words but Glaedr said no more and nor did he reach out to his Rider. After a moment, with an unreadable expression upon his face, Oromis continued.

"Again I cannot and do not know why, but for whatever reasons Murtagh and Thorn chose to intercept the hatchlings and take them into his own apprenticeship. Whether willingly or not is irrelevant for Morzan's spawn will surely know of Galbatorix's methods of creating name-slaves … we cannot know if it was a chance meeting – a spur of the moment decision – or a plan years in the making, but it seemed that Murtagh needed the hatchlings – or their strength – to complete the ritual required to rip apart reality as he did.

"All that I do know is that the dwarf Rider and his dragon died in the process … as you no doubt saw the evidence … and that Murtagh, Thorn, Morzan and the Urgal Rider and his dragon are somewhere in Alagaësia. But what they plan and have planed … that is beyond my knowledge. We now face once more the unknown and must strive to counter it without knowing its design. It will not be easy – but nothing we Riders stand for and must guard against ever is."

Silence took hold of their little camp as Oromis threw a couple more branches onto the fire before deciding that it was hot enough to start cooking upon. While he busied himself with supper, Eragon took the time to go over his master's words … he saw no reason for trickery in them, nor did what he said seem to be anything other than the truth as Oromis interpreted it. But it bothered him, acknowledging the fact that Murtagh was behind all this – that Murtagh was the reason he'd woken that night after dreaming of the event … he knew now who it had been he'd watched utter the spells and stride forth through that gap.

_Now what?_ He wondered absently, running a hand through his hair and staring out into the bleak landscape around them. They had left the hill in search of surroundings that didn't reek of death and decay, arriving at the spot beside a gurgling stream just metres from the area that was dead land. Oromis had told him – not that he really needed telling – that was the result of what happens when energy is taken from the land and everything in it. The very earth beneath their feet dies and therefore has nothing to sustain new life into fresh grass and plants. Forever would that lowly hilltop be a blight on the landscape – a reminder of the price power came at.

They ate in silence, too hungry and exhausted to speak. Saphira curled round the fire and had long since drifted off into slumber. Eragon knew she'd wait until she'd rested before flying out in search for some game large enough and plentiful enough for her to hunt. As he finished the last of the simple yet substantial meal Oromis had cooked, Eragon let out a sigh and glanced to the hill where the bodies of the first dwarven Rider and his dragon lay abandoned.

Getting to his feet without a word, he trudged up to the crest of the hill and once again knelt down in the dust beside them. _Ebrithilar,_ Eragon whispered to the eldunarí, _will you lend me your strength so that I may lay this Rider and his dragon to rest?_ They said that they would and so he set about searching the surrounding nearby for a deposit of rock large enough to encase the dragon's body. A large quantity of the reddish granite that was used to build Bregan Hold – ancestral home to Dûrgrimst Ingietum – lay by a stream.

He carried the dwarf over himself, but used magic to lift the dragon. Once they were laid side by side, Eragon stepped back and said, as he'd once done so long ago when he'd told Murtagh in no uncertain terms that he was going to burry Brom, "Reisa du stenr." The rock rose up, flowing seamlessly into a vault around the forms of the Rider and dragon, his magic shaping until the rock had sealed shut over the top, like the lid of a tomb. Then did Eragon struggle to remember the words that he'd been taught by Gannel – the spiritual leader of the dwarves – so many years ago. Stumbling over the dwarvish, he recited the prayers appropriate, pleading with the appropriate gods and finished by saying in the ancient language, "sé ono stydja unin mor'ranr."

Oromis had come up behind him as he'd worked and they stood now together in a moment silent respect for the dead hatchlings. With a few whispered words, Oromis carved glyphs into the rock face, marking it as the resting place of the first dwarven Dragon Rider and his dragon. Eragon found it rather sad to know that they both would remain unnamed in death; unnamed and most probably unknowingly lost too.

"Now what?" he wondered out loud, Saphira's snores reaching them both from their impromptu camp on the other side of the hill.

"Now?" Oromis questioned, "Now it is time for you and Saphira to return home. For even if you are not of present, you soon will be sorely needed … Fírnen and Arya cannot hope to combat this evil alone – nor are they prepared to. There is too much that they do not know."

Eragon flashed a tired grin at his master, "Regretting not letting slip more of our Order's secrets to her ebrithil?" he teased.

A fond smile lightened the elf's face as he no doubt recalled the time he'd taken to tutor Arya in the ways of magic. "To this day I cannot recall why or how she wangled them out of me … that child had the innocence of youth about her and a countenance that could melt your heart in less time than it took for a single beat … within moments of birth did she capture so skilfully the heart of me and nearly all of my race for she was and is the first true born elf in almost a century and a half." Oromis sighed, "That girl was born to be free," he mused. "Yet fate decided she be born to a king and so then it could tormented her with the agony of choice."

Eragon followed the old elf back to their campfire and sat down beside Saphira's vast bulk. "She's a good queen," he muttered, not really sure he was able to cope brooding over her for long, lest his thoughts turn bitter at the loss of what could've been.

"Of course she is," Oromis agreed, "she is, after all, her parents' daughter … but yet her temperament is not one for sitting still and staying put and doing nothing; she is far too much like her father in that respect … and far to like her mother in others." He shook his head and smiled somewhat sadly across at Eragon. "Enough talk; we must rest … tomorrow … tomorrow we will decide what to do and where to go from here."

As Eragon was laying down beside Saphira, gazing up at the star strewn sky, that he let his mind drift off in thoughts of her … of Arya … over the past years he'd refused to let himself tarry over long on what ifs and could have beens for they were too painful. Yet she had never – not once – been far from his mind; no matter what happened thoughts about her and of her were always swirling at the back of his mind … not his mind he realised now, but his heart. He'd learnt simply not to listen to them …

In the few moments before slumber took him, a startlingly clear realisation hit him and suddenly, more than anything, he wanted to resolve it; to get up and act upon it immediately.

_I miss her_.


	11. The Last Night

**The Last Night**

* * *

><p>To say the elves were over joyed and shocked when Oromis clambered down from Saphira's saddle behind Eragon was a slight understatement. After a brief explanation of what had happened at Du Garjzla Arget and a very vague account of the whys and wherefores, the elves decided they could not deny that Oromis had indeed returned from the void. Eragon watched enchanted as several of them joined hands and danced in circles round him – very much as Lifaen, Narí, and the others had done when Arya had led them to Ceris. A somewhat foolish grin appeared on his master's face as he beheld the frivolous behaviour and quirks of his kin.<p>

Adiré then led them all in a series of songs and dances as they gathered round the driftwood fire on the common before the sea, watching the sun setting behind the ship moored at the end of the jetty. Only when the fire had died down, the faelnirv running low and the lazy smell of good food long consumed, did a full narrative of Eragon and Saphira's adventure get told. Eragon had discovered – or been told – in the years spent upon their little island of isolation, that he'd inherited his father's ability to tell a good story. And accordingly, he did spin a slight embellishment of his and Saphira's latest quest as the elves listened raptly.

"It is good, that you saw fit to bury the dwarf Rider accordingly," Lëyri said then, sitting beside Adiré with her hands resting on her swollen abdomen. In the weeks since he'd let she seemed to have gotten even bigger – although he refrained from mentioning that to her since he was keen to keep her temper at bay. Oromis had reacted to the news in silence; neither offering up congratulations or his opinion on the matter as he sat in thoughtful reflectiveness, listening to the elves and Eragon banter and chat with easy and comfortableness. Saphira had gone off hunting in preparation for their long journey back home.

"Even if burning is customary for a Rider's funeral."

Eragon had forgotten Lëyri had been speaking.

During the journey back to their haven, Eragon had had a minor epiphany in terms of Lëyri and how he felt about her. She was a friend. Nothing more … a friend whom he'd let believe that there was more to how he felt – that there _could_ be more to what he felt. A friend he'd led on unintentionally and who refused to accept that was all she was ever going to be to him. He did not – nor had he ever – love her. As Blödhgarm had pointed out so clearly; Eragon's problem lay with a certain emerald dragon and his Rider back in Du Weldenvarden. Although how he felt about _her_ was by no means clear to him anymore. Time and distance had distorted and confused him and now there was no way for him to know where he stood with her.

"Eragon … are you with us?"

He blinked.

Across from him the elf Beaum chuckled. "I'll not ask whom it was occupying your mind," he said with a grin, "but that is beside the issue. You wish us to return?"

Eragon nodded. "Oromis, Saphira and I shall – taking with us the surviving eldunarí and the dragon eggs. If you wish to remain then we will not stop you; if you wish to return then again, we will not stop you."

"Take the night to think about it," Oromis suggested, speaking for the first time that evening. The elves nodded and the subject was dropped as they drifted onto less important topics, such as how early summer had come upon them, and if this would mean an even earlier and longer winter to follow.

"Ebrithil," an elf woman across from Eragon asked then, "you say that you were called through the breach by Glaedr, and that Morzan came because Galbatorix could not … yet who called through that fiend? Who wanted the Shade back into life?"

It was a question Eragon wondered why he had not already posed to his master. He awaited the reply with the rest, turning his head and reaching out to brush Saphira's mind as she landed beside them in the soft sand of the beach.

"I do not know," he said simply. "Maybe it is because he is and was a Shade, possessed by spirits, that he was able to slip out … maybe coincidence had it that the very spirits that had been freed from him were at or near Du Wydra Nángorörh at the time … who can say? I do not know … maybe it was simply a mistake – a fault in Murtagh's wording of the Spells that enabled that monster to once more roam the land." He looked out across the sea. "I only hope we can find Arya and warn her of his return before he finds her … that, I fear, would break her."

Lëyri had watched Eragon intently when _her_ name was mentioned. Eragon had done his uttermost best to remain impassive, although it was difficult owing to his laps that night a few weeks back when he had allowed himself to think of her. Lëyri's eyes narrowed slightly, but before she could speak it was decided that they ought to turn in early – so they would at least have ample time before dawn to think over whether or not they wanted to return home.

Oromis followed Eragon along the jetty to the ship as Saphira lifted her head from the sand. Only when the two Riders had clambered aboard did she heave herself into the sky and glide across the open water to land gently upon the deck of the ship without causing more than a slight rocking from side to side.

They came to a halt outside an empty cabin and Oromis turned his wise face to Eragon and said; "So Lëyri is pregnant."

"With my child, yes."

"So she says."

Eragon looked sharply at his master, frowning. "You think she's lying?" he asked. "Yet that is not possible for we speak solely in the ancient language here."

"I think," Oromis said carefully, "that she herself isn't sure whose child she's carrying."

_You think she's been playing him, ebrithil?_ Saphira asked then, and radiating through their link he sensed an overwhelming need on her part to protect him. _You think she's been so openly saying he is hers and yet going behind his back to another's arms._

"She isn't foolish enough to pine away after affection she knows isn't going to come – no matter how long the wait … but something doesn't seem quite right in calling that child yours." He shook his head and smiled slightly apologetically at Eragon, who was now recounting everything Lëyri had said to him since announcing she was pregnant. "Forgive me; you were happy before I spoke."

"Content," Eragon corrected. "Not happy; content." Maybe it was because she was reluctant to accept he did not love her as she did him, that she so adamantly believed the child to be his. He did not know – and was _not_ about to go charging over to her house demanding answers at such a late hour. It could wait until the morning. "Or at least, I was until you came back and decided to question everything."

Oromis smiled, but with a weary understanding in his eyes and Eragon suddenly realised _why_ the elf had made the assumptions he had; once upon a time he himself had stood in Eragon's position and once upon a time he had gotten his hopes up only for them to be shattered. "Sometimes we need a new perspective to come along and question everything – if only so we do not get so attached to what we think we know. The unsettling confusion often leads to new roads and paths we did not know existed … or had forgotten were there."

"Goodnight ebrithil," Eragon said then.

"Goodnight … _Bromsson_."

He felt an unmistakable glow of pride at that name and with a somewhat foolish grin on his face he headed down the corridor to his own cabin and shut the door. _What if the child isn't mine?_ Eragon asked Saphira as he laid back on the bunk.

_You cannot miss what you've never had_, she said pointedly.

_But I have had this – or believed I had it … if this child is not mine … can I really let this be taken from me before it has even begun?_

_Better now, before there the child has come, than later when it is here and firmly in your heart._ But the child was already in his heart, and Saphira knew that. _Oh little one … Oromis does not know for certain – and he would not put this doubt into your mind unless he believed there was a good reason to._

_I know … it's just … why can't my life be simple and straight forwards? It used to be … a long time ago now it was simple and straight forwards, yet now everything is twisted and full of double – sometimes triple – meanings and hidden plots. Why did my life get so utterly complex?_

In a whisper Saphira said, _Because I chose you._

_Yes._ He agreed, _out of everyone, you chose me … although for the life of me I cannot fathom why._ He sensed her amusement before she bade him goodnight and settled back down to sleep. Eragon lay awake until the dusky night paled away to dawn, his mind full of confusion and chaos for he had a myriad of things that had to be done and countered and so forth. At least, now, he knew what it was he had been missing over the past years. That sense of something uncompleted and unfinished had been explained instantly when Oromis told him that it was Murtagh; Murtagh who had ripped apart reality and dare to do what was forbidden.

With dawn came morning, and the sun rose high behind the island, bright and cool and full of promises. He paced the deck of the ship, far too preoccupied to join his friends for breakfast and so it was that around mid-morning Adiré clambered to the deck and stood in Eragon's path to gain his attention.

"What is it?"

"We're coming with you."

"What?"

"We're coming with you," the elf repeated. "Home. All of us … we're going home with you and master Oromis."

Eragon blinked several times. "That …" he said, "that is good. Good news … yes. Good. I did not like the thought of leaving you behind – it seemed wrong of me to do so yet I could not force you to return."

The elf smiled, he looked a lot like his uncle probably would if he wasn't covered in blue-black fur from head to toe. "With your permission, we'll begin loading up the ship with what we need for the voyage …" he looked slyly at Eragon, "I suggest you do your best to tidy up any mess you may or may not have created over the years."

"Go on – be off with you! Do something useful and show Oromis where we store the eldunarí and the eggs …" the eldunarí had been reduced to no more than a dozen or so glowing orbs, all of which were safely stored in a velvet lined chest hidden under Eragon's bunk. Somehow he'd always know the elves would return with him.

"Saphira has already taken him there."

"Well go and get your things together and pack then!"

"I did that last night."

Eragon looked at Blödhgarm's young nephew. Though older than him by more than a century, Adiré seemed in temperament years younger. He almost seemed to idolise Eragon at times in the way young boys do their heroes … it unnerved him at times, yet knew Adiré meant him no harm or disrespect.

"Fine. You can help me tidy up this lump of floating tree."

The rest of the day passed in an almost frenzied hast as Eragon, Oromis, Saphira and the elves loaded and packed the ship with all their belongings and supplies. Eragon was by no means surprised when Oromis volunteered to have the cabin stuffed to the rafters with documents and books and scrolls of knowledge. Many of them had come from the Rider's own library in his hut … Eragon had pilfered them from their shelves in his last few days in Ellesméra.

The unhatched dragon eggs – wild and bonded – were hidden in their own pocket of time and space with that handy spell the eldunarí taught Eragon back on Vorengaurd inches behind Oromis. Saphira's dragon armour, much too small for her now as it was, had been stored in the hull of the ship along with other items like food drink, materials and large items the elves had not wanted to leave behind – such as a sculptured swan made from both a dark mahogany and the rose quartz and a life-sized portrait of Blödhgarm's mother, Ildrid the Beautiful. The elves were not above their materialistic vanity it seemed.

There was no small amount of chagrin over leaving behind their homes, which, Eragon was grateful for, they could not bring with them although privately Eragon and Saphira suspected that if there was a way then the elves would insist on them being packed into the already over-flowing ship. By the time dusk once more fell, they were ready to set sail. They spent one final night round that campfire upon the yellow beach with the young forest behind them, singing and laughing and dancing and enjoying each other's company.

And then Oromis had to go and ruin the evening by pulling Lëyri aside and asking her outright who the father of her unborn child was. Thank fully only Eragon, Saphira, Beaum and Adiré remained by the fire as the other elves had long since sought the comfort of their beds for a final time. Lëyri looked at Oromis with something akin to dislike upon her delicate face … her silver hair glinting in the light of the moon and the fire. She _was_ beautiful, Eragon reasoned, but his heart just didn't seem to want her.

"What sort of question is _that_?" she demanded, pulling her arm out of his hold. Through Saphira, he could sense Glaedr's disapproval for his Rider's out rightness, for it was definitely out of character for the old elf, but Eragon also knew that being direct was probably the only way of getting a clear and straight answer from Lëyri.

"Do not mistake me for a fool; I may have died but I have not forgotten. The hurt of being told one thing to have the truth counter it … I will _not_ let you do that to Eragon."

In a quiet voice Lëyri said, "And what right do you have to act so? He is not your son is he? He is the son of Brom and only does his father have the right to ask such a thing of me!"

"No," Oromis agreed, "I am not his father … but that does not mean I cannot view him as the son I was denied does it? Be that as it may, you – and every elf – know of what I speak and you know that I would not ask this of you lightly."

_The son he was denied?_

_Everyone seems to be fighting over the right to love you_, Saphira remarked, _luckily there is no dispute to my claim on you._

_No one would dare to dispute you_, Eragon replied. _Nor would I let them_, he added.

_Hush little one, I want to know if my objections to her had a solid grounding._

_You mean your jealousy. _She snorted indignantly but let it go.

Lëyri had looked away from the Rider, her gaze drifting first to Eragon and then, surprisingly, to Adiré. He nodded once. She closed her eyes and straightened. "Truth?" she asked, "you want the truth?"

"The truth would be nice," Eragon said as pleasantly as he could, although he suspected the niceness couldn't supress the sarcastic undertone. Beaum rolled his eyes in response to that sarcasm.

"Truth is I don't know."

_You, don't … know_. Saphira repeated sceptically.

But it was the truth for there was no way in the ancient language for her to manoeuvre out of such an absolute answer. "I do not know whose child this is."

"There are spells that can – perhaps – determine at least the genetics of the child … in other words we can find out if it is fully an elf or otherwise." Oromis offered, though his tone told Eragon that he had already made his mind up on what the outcome would be.

Suddenly Eragon didn't care; he was sick and tired of her games, of always second guessing her and letting her get her own way so as to avoid a shouting match … sick and tired of all the trickery she employed to keep him in her arms. He didn't need to ask who the other might be nor did he wait to hear Oromis's verdict; instead he jumped onto Saphira's back and let her carry him back to the ship where he spent the rest of the night at the rail, staring unseeingly west, and wondering idly if _she_ was awake and if _she_ happened to be glancing his way. Since that dream he'd let himself think more and more of _her_.

_I'm coming home,_ he thought, _we're coming home._


	12. Land Ahead!

**Land Ahead!**

* * *

><p><em>B<em>_last this cursed ship!_ He muttered silently to himself as he stood at the prow, watching his homeland draw ever closer. Eragon didn't remember the stifling confinement of the _Talítha_ getting to him last time he was voyaging aboard it. But then last time they hadn't been hurrying to return to Alagaësia before untold misery and danger was set loose upon it. And last time Lëyri hadn't been less than a month away from giving birth; it seemed to be hormonal overload and Eragon remembered the times his cousin, Roran, had sought his company in the dead of night during the latter stages of Katrina's pregnancy – not that Katrina knew that for Roran had slipped out while she was asleep seeking a respite from the emotions that for inexplicable reasons seemed to grip women at certain times.

It seemed that Oromis had at least lifted that burden from Eragon for upon completing his spells he had announced firmly that the child Lëyri was bearing was entirely elven. "Even if your genetics have been completely altered from the Agaetí Blödhren, there would be traces of dragons and the bond you have with Saphira in the make-up of the child. As you know, a Rider cannot completely call himself either elven or human – or dwarven or an Urgal now it seems – for in our blood flows the blood of dragons." He had placed a hand on Eragon's shoulder as they stood together five days into their voyage at the aft of the ship. "I'm sorry … but it is not your child she carries."

He'd not spoken to anyone other than Saphira and the eldunarí since then. Either Oromis or Lëyri herself or Saphira had told the rest of the elves the news because he saw them muttering to each other when they thought he wasn't watching. It made him feel sick; after sixteen years of companionship and openness why had they so readily and so suddenly returned to the instinctual need elves have for gossiping and talking about someone behind their backs? He supposed it was the fact they were returning home; forthrightness was not overly encouraged among the elves, nor was it common …

But, as Saphira had pointed out, at least now he didn't have to worry about the upcoming distraction of a new born child; he could focus entirely upon the task at hand without the fear that someone would discover that he had an heir and try to take that from him. Perhaps this was the best outcome for all involved – including the child. He was hardly father material anyway … nor would he make a particularly good father …

Despite all that, he couldn't brush aside his disappointment … or the pain of having a life to be told it wasn't even his. Eragon had loved that child – and he still did and would until his dying day no doubt – but he knew he now had no right to love the child Lëyri was carrying inside her. The child she had insisted and believed to be his. Eragon didn't know who he was angrier at; Lëyri for tricking him in the first place, or Oromis for exposing the trickery.

_Little one … one day, I promise, you will have a family too. A child who will call you father and adore you for all time. A child who will make you as proud as you made your father._

With a small sigh Eragon replied; _I doubt my life will allow for such simplicity Saphira. There will always be those who will seek to destroy me and any family I have. How can I allow such a thing to happen or to risk the lives of a family I desire? At least now Lëyri and the child will be safe and no one will seek to harm them to get to me._

_Would that have worked?_ Saphira said. _If anyone harmed the child, yes … but Lëyri? I doubt it. You wouldn't have taken the world apart to avenge her or find her if anything had happened to her would you?_

_No …_ Eragon whispered, _no I wouldn't have because I do not love her enough. She is a friend and if anything were to happen I'd extend the same efforts to countering whatever happend as I would for Katrina and Nasuada … but no. I would not, as you put it, tear the world apart to find or avenge her._

Saphira was silent for a while as she drifted overhead in the lofty clouds. _And if it were Arya?_ His dragon asked in a quiet voice._ If something happened to her?_

Eragon blocked her from his thoughts and shut her out without answering. But she didn't need an answer for his reaction had been answer enough; he didn't know. How could he know? She had never left his heart in those sixteen years but what hold exactly did she have on his heart? For the feelings he'd had for her before he knew now had been little more than a childhood infatuation … and yet … yet they had not diminished nor gone away. If anything they had grown into something more and pure and in those final few months _something_ had changed enough for him to dare ask where he stood with her and what would become of them.

_Time,_ she had said. She needed time. Was that still the case? Or had time enough passed for her even without him there beside her? Did she herself know what it was between them now – or was she as confused and clueless as he was? Or had she chosen to turn aside and take his leaving as a sign that his heart was never wholly hers to begin with? And why was he thinking of her like this? Why now – _now_ after all this time of shunting thoughts of her aside and ignoring them, why did they consume him like this, throw him into doubt and waft uncertainty upon him? Was it the release from his obligation to Lëyri? Or his impending return to Alagaësia? Would she even be the same person he'd known in that war … or had her time hidden away in the elves' capital rubbed off on her enough that she'd become something of her mother; a woman capable of great deeds but far too fond of the privileges and luxuries peace afforded her.

Then he shook his head. This was Arya he was thinking about. She would never be so petty … all the same doubt continued to gnaw at him for his only concern – his primary worry – was that his best friend had ceased to exist as the woman he'd known. Eragon was certain that whatever it was he was about to face – that whatever Murtagh was planning – he could not do it, he could not face it and meet it, without his best of friends at his side. Right then he didn't care if she loved him or not – or even if he still loved her; he cared that he still had that one person he trusted above all others save Saphira. He cared that Arya still trusted him above everyone other than Fírnen. He cared that what they'd had during that war had not gone away.

"I have a message for you; apparently you're blocking her from your thoughts so Saphira has asked me to rely a message." Beaum came up to stand beside him.

"What?" Eragon demanded in a growl, not sure he even wanted relayed messages from his dragon just then. Surely she knew what kind of reaction her question would have triggered in him?

"Land ho." The elf said with a perfectly straight face. Eragon blinked and then jumped up to stand on the very forefront of the ship's prow, balancing upon the top of the figurehead with balance he'd improved during his time on that island. Grabbing hold of one of the countless ropes that stretched across the deck Eragon craned hid neck as he stared intently at the horizon, waiting impatiently to see what Saphira already could.

Eventually the smudge upon that horizon began to merge and change into some semblance of normality and he let a grin lighten up his face and his mood – which had been nothing but dark and melancholy for the past three weeks – as he saw, for the first time in sixteen years, his homeland. Letting the power of the ancient language fill his voice, Eragon cried out; "Land ahead!" and heard the scurrying elves all hurry to the railings in order to catch that first glance of their long abandoned homeland.

Alagaësia.

_You're not still angry with me are you?_ Saphira asked sheepishly as she tentatively touched Eragon's mind when she realised he was no longer blocking her completely from him.

_I just … I'm scared she won't be the friend I left behind. That I've lost that one person who knew me and understood me and trusted me for _who_ I am, not what I am._

_Your bond with Arya … it runs deeper than simple friendship Eragon. We all knew that right from the word go._ Glaedr told him then. _But what exactly that is … _he gave a mental shrug, _time will tell us I am sure of it._

_Why aren't you speaking to Oromis, ebrithil?_ Eragon asked, determined to steer the conversation away from himself and whatever it was that may or may not exist between him and the Rider of the green dragon. The great gold dragon huffed – or he would've if he could – and said nothing. Eragon could sense him sulking in the back of Saphira's mind and grinned as an understanding enlightened him; Glaedr, it seemed, wasn't quite ready to forgive his Rider for dying just yet. _Oh … right … because you're above such childish antics aren't you master?_

_Is he necessary?_ Glaedr demanded of the other eldunarí and Saphira. _Do we really need him?_

_I … I'm afraid so old friend,_ a female eldunarí replied in a mild voice clearly trying hard not to let her amusement show, _he is sort of essential._

_How annoying._

_But he does have a point … punishing Oromis for something out of his control … it is rather infantile don't you think?_

But Glaedr didn't respond so the other eldunarí fell silent too, leaving Eragon and Saphira to try hard not to laugh at their master's antics. It was a hard task to master and they both knew their mirth wasn't at all helping the gold dragon's pride or his ego or his decision to stop punishing his Rider for something that he hadn't done on purpose; after all it wasn't only Glaedr that was hurting now for Eragon had seen the suffering in his master's eyes and the envy when he looked at Saphira that he wasn't able to fully conceal. Oromis now bore an expression that Eragon remembered his father having whenever Saphira was around; agonizing envy at a loss that only one who had suffered could understand.

It wasn't hard to understand why Galbatorix had descended into madness as he had.

"Shadeslayer …" Eragon glanced over his shoulder, remembering Beaum was still there, "Your orders my lord?" He caught Oromis's eye over the elf's head and reached out to the old elf.

_My lord?_

_Well technically you are the leader of our rather splendid little order._

_I don't remember getting that message, _Eragon mused idly.

_Really? Islanzadí installed you and Saphira in Vrael's chambers aye? Upon your very first day in that leafy city. If that is not message enough for you then perhaps I should make you swear the oaths that he did right here and right now?_

_I'm fine thanks …_

_They're still awaiting orders Eragon …_

_I hate being in charge,_ he moaned to Saphira, the eldunarí and Oromis. He got smirks and amusement from all of them in return. "Make for the mouth of the Edda River … we'll sail along the river as we did before and seek contact with the dwarves in Hedarth and the elves in Ceris; find out what's been happening if we can. At Ceris we'll decide what to do and where to go next …"

He turned back to the rapidly approaching land before him and suddenly couldn't wait to get there; though he and Saphira had but recently been home, _this_ time it was for more than a brief visit to right the wrong and be off again. This time they would make their presence known and stay until they were sure everything was fixed and sorted and balanced … even if that meant never leaving again.

Three days later they arrived at the dwarven outpost. Eragon and Adiré stepped ashore to speak briefly with the dwarf in charge before returning and setting sail once again. Hedarth was so far removed from the Beor Mountains that there had been little the overwhelmed captain could tell Eragon, other than they still traded freely with the elves in Ceris and that the elven outpost had become more of a settlement like Hedarth rather than a handful of huts home to a dozen elves given the task of keeping everyone out.

"Well … this should be fun." Oromis said dryly as they sail up river towards Du Weldenvarden that evening. "Although how do you propose to explain to every one of my race how it is I am alive again? And, for that matter, the other races as well?"

Eragon looked at his master, "Why, I was planning on letting you do that ebrithil," he said with a grin, "after all; you're the one whose conquered death."

"I think I liked you better as a boy charged with the impossible. You're wit has only gotten as bad as your father's did …" he shook his head in mock despair.

"Be nice," Eragon chided, before sobering slightly and looking out across the river bank. "But in all honesty Oromis, I became a man the day my uncle died … though I admit I clung to childhood and adolescence until the dragons cured me of Durza's curse."

"You mean until Arya gave you a hard, sharp, cold dose of reality?"

Eragon snorted. "She told you about that then?"

Oromis's eyes sparkled. "Who do you think she ran to after she did it?"

He shook his head and gazed out west where the rest of Alagaësia lay, unaware of his return. No matter what he told himself, he just couldn't shake his fear that time and peace had stolen away his best friend … and he so desperately needed his best friend right then; the prospect of stopping Murtagh and Morzan from whatever it was they were planning and the whole twisted and messed up situation with Lëyri and the issues erupting between Oromis and Glaedr despite his return as well as the unwelcome fact that Durza was once again out there … he needed his best friend to tell him that whatever it was, they'd figure it out together.

He just needed his best friend back beside him once again.

_But are you still that to me, Arya?_

It was funny; he'd only really realised that was what she was to him earlier that day … but in fairness they hadn't ever had a chance to _be_ best friends to one another. The war had seen to that and then when peace arrived so had his decision to leave and hers to stay … they'd never had the opportunity to just be friends and do what friends do together; fighting alongside one another and following each other into danger hardly constituted as normal activities to do with your best friend. And because they hadn't had the chance or the time to be that to the other – to be the very closest and bestest of friends to each other – there had also been no chance in hell of them ever moving beyond friendship into romance despite, perhaps, the obvious feelings and emotions between them that suggested it wouldn't be a dire move to make nor an absolute disaster that would only result in a successfully ruined friendship.

No … all he wanted, right now, was to see his best friend and for her to tell him that he hadn't actually screwed up when he let Murtagh and Thorn go … well she probably would tell him he _had_ screwed up, and then point out the many difficult ways for them to fix the screw up. Together. The phrase '_you'd have done the same for me_' had sprung between them so often in those final months of the war that it had almost become some kind of promise. A promise that they would always be there for the other, no matter what.

He hadn't realised he'd spoken his thoughts aloud and that his master was still there beside him, listening. "I'm confused," Oromis admitted, though he sounded amused too, "do you love her or not?"

Eragon shrugged. "All I know," he said slowly, "is that she means more to me than anyone else ever has – other than Saphira of course."

"Of course …" His master trailed off thoughtfully and remained silent for a while. "Have you heard of du istalrí?" Eragon shook his head, "Well the istalrí – as I'm sure you know _istalrí_ is just another word for _fire_ in the ancient language – Du Istalrí was the name given to the Riders' weak-point – their undoing … yet the person was more than just that; they were also a Rider's strength and purpose and their reason."

"You mean their lovers?"

"Not necessarily," Oromis disagreed, "sometimes they were a family member – a child or sibling – or a close friend. Sometime it was a person the Rider utterly despised … but they shared a bond that went far beyond words and that bond often got the Rider killed – either the istalrí would do it themselves or the Rider would die in place of du istalrí."

Eragon was looking at his master sceptically, "Did you just make all that up?" Oromis looked offended. "Because if not then why did you not warn me that such a person existed out there somewhere?"

He shrugged, "Not every Rider has one, and it would've only distracted you from the task at hand … that and the fact that du istalrí usually end up betraying their Rider for whatever reason would've just disheartened you."

"So what? You think Arya is my istalrí or something?"

"Did I say that? How careless of me …" Eragon looked at Oromis. Death, it seemed, had changed the old Rider somewhat. "You know there is always another explanation for your confused and bewildered feelings for Islanzadí's daughter."

"Oh?"

"You're completely mad."


	13. Rumours

**Rumours**

* * *

><p>Apparently things had gone relatively smoothly back in Ellesméra in terms of her abdication and Däthedr's subsequent succession. When they'd next spoken five days later, he had informed her – with a perfectly straight face that she was sure had taken him hours to perfect – that the screams of rage from Lord Fiolr and his allies had been heard as far away as Sílthrim. It seemed they weren't counting on Arya so skilfully out-witting them at the last hurdle like that … and since there was no lawful reason why Däthedr could not or should not be king, Fiolr had no grounds to object and place himself or someone he could control upon the Knotted Throne instead. But that had been well over a month ago now, and Däthedr was due to arrive in Ilirea tomorrow to attend the annual meeting of the five nations.<p>

Arya and Fírnen had remained in Ilirea, rejoicing in the fact that they were no longer forced to do anything that they didn't want to do for they were, now, truly Dragon and Rider. Ugly rumours had begun to spread of unease in the south, but they remained – for now – in the shadows, unconfirmed and just that; rumours. Nasuada had told Arya that she planned to address the issue at the meeting with the other monarchs where King Orrin had a chance to confirm or deny them. Arya hadn't told her that she, Jörmundur, Angela and Fírnen were already three steps ahead of her and investigating them.

_Can you quit with the thoughts on politics?_ Fírnen complained. _All you've ever done since abdicating is think about politics … more than when you were actually queen!_

_That's not true and you know it!_ Arya huffed. _But fine; I shall leave the thoughts alone … how high can we go do you think? Eragon told me that when he and Saphira went above the storm on their way to Doru Areaba, they saw the world was round …_

_Let's see if they were right! _Fírnen flapped his wings and angled upwards, climbing ever higher with each movement while Arya sat comfortably in the saddle with her legs strapped in so she wouldn't fall, even without holding on. They rose high, the city of Ilirea below diminishing in size rapidly until it was little more than a splotch on the bank of a silvery rope that curved through the land far, far, terribly far below them. Fírnen rose above the few wisps of tattered clouds and kept climbing … higher and higher … and higher still …

The air became thin and it was hard for them both to breath properly … Arya took consciously shallow breaths as she urged Fírnen to do the same; a great weight seemed to press her down into the saddle and the movements of her dragon's wings became strained and difficult and as if something was holding them back.

_Fírnen …_ Arya said worriedly, but he couldn't hear her. "_Fírnen_!" she yelled with mind and voice before a wave of light-headedness engulfed her … Next thing she knew they were spiralling lazily back towards the earth, considerably lower than they had been last time Arya had checked. _What happened?_

_You blacked out._

_I figured as much out for myself … _

_Eragon and Saphira obviously forgot to mention that they only reached such splendid heights with the aid of spells … if they even got that high up._

_You don't think the world is round then?_

A puff of smoke emitted from the dragon's nostrils as his scepticism radiated through their link. _What does the shape of the world matter to a dragon? So long as we can fly and hunt and know we are the king of the food chain then that is all that matters to us._

_You just don't like the idea of Saphira being able to do something you can't_. Fírnen snorted but didn't deny her comment as he swooped low over the city towards the main citadel amidst the usual cries of 'Argetlam!' and 'Swiftwing!' and 'Shadeslayer!' from the crowds of people in the streets below them.

_Looks like Däthedr has gotten here early,_ Fírnen said and Arya frowned before looking over her dragon's shoulder at the surface of the earth. A large congregation lingered around the main entrance to the stronghold and through Fírnen's eyes she saw that a large number of them had the pointed ears and slanted features typical of her race. _Shall we go and say hello? And congratulate him on his enthronement?_

_I thought you wanted to spend the entire day together?_ Arya asked, _so why are you trying to get rid of me when it is only just noon? Don't condemn me to more tedious politics than necessary! I fear I'll go mad if you do …_ The emerald dragon huffed before spreading his wings further and plunging off into the sky away from Ilirea and the politics therein. They spent the remainder of the day soaring through blue skies and over green hills and generally enjoying each other's company. Fírnen finally swooped in through the open windows of Arya's chambers and settled upon the floor as the moon climbed high into the night. He coaxed his weary Rider off his back and curled up to sleep while she yanked off the saddle and abandoned it where it fell.

_Arya …_

_What?_ She demanded as she clambered into bed. Though they had, in effect, done very little that day, it was tiring being out in the fresh air all the while especially with Fírnen dancing and spiralling through the air in what he was convinced were spectacular aerobatics.

_I love you._

She smiled. _I love you too you big green lump._ And she drifted off with that knowledge and certainty firmly in her heart.

By mid-morning the next day, Arya was fervently wishing she were with her dragon once again as he took advantage of yet another fine summer's day. Even if he was off on one of his hunting expeditions … anything had to be better than the prospect that now faced her; spending the day shut in a room with Nasuada, Orik, Orrin, Nar Garzhvog, Däthedr and their 'trusted' advisors. The one small upside was that the large windows in the council chamber offered a rather spectacular view overlooking the river …

She filled in behind Jörmundur and his limp and took a seat beside Roran Stronghammer; Eragon's cousin had arrived a few day ago with his wife and two sons in order to congratulate Nasuada upon the birth of her daughter, see his own daughter, and give his say in the meeting. "Something tells me you thought abdicating would mean you no longer had to sit through these meetings," he whispered to her.

"No, I just thought my presence wouldn't be necessary …" He chuckled and quickly turned to the front as his queen got to her feet and began to address the two dozen or so gathered in the large room.

"Welcome you all to Ilirea for the seventeenth annual meeting of the five nations. Before we get down to the usual matters, I'd like to first hear from King Orrin in regards to a number of disturbing rumours that have reached our ears." Arya sat up a little straighter; at least this way she only had to pay attention to the beginnings of the tedious talks.

King Orrin of Surda got to his feet. During the war he'd been a slim, but athletic young king with good senses that were often clouded by prejudices and pride. Towards the end of that campaign he'd taken to the bottle and to drowning his sorrows in alcohol. In the intervening time since King Orrin had become something of a drunkard; a portly belly which served to hold all the copious amounts of food and drink he consumed in a day now bulged beneath a chain-mail shirt that had obviously been remade to accommodate his widening girth. But when he was sober – and not hungover – Orrin did still have some decency and admitted his faults, saying he should've listened to Nasuada when she told him to lay off the drink during the war. He swayed as he stood.

"I don't know the extent of the truth myself," he admitted. "Though I have spent the better part of three months doing my best to find out all I can, sadly there is little I can say to enlighten you to the situation."

"What situation?" Nar Garzhvog rumbled. "What are these rumours that have plagued your lands, Lady Nightstalker?"

"I didn't realise they were still calling her that," Roran murmured to Arya.

"Well 'Queen Nightstalker' doesn't exactly have the same ring to it does it?"

His smile was lost in his beard.

Nasuada sighed and Jörmundur surprisingly turned his gaze to Arya. It was a moment before she realised this was her duty; to report and counteract any discontent in the land. That and the veteran knew that Arya was more aware of the situation than he was. She suppressed a groan as she got to her own feet while the other three sat.

"Three weeks ago – shortly after the announcement that Lord Däthedr had become könungr –"

"Könungr?" Someone questioned.

Arya closed her eyes, "Forgive me; _king_. Shortly after that announcement rumours began to surface in the lower city of a disturbance in the south. At first most dismissed them as nothing but stories despite them reaching the citadel here and Jörmundur and myself were all set to publically dismiss them." She paused for a moment, unsure how Nasuada and Orik would react to the next part of her narrative for Angela had persuaded her to keep it quiet until she had returned. "But then a child arrived half-dead from hunger and exhaustion creating an uproar as he stated that his village had been ransacked by a Dragon Rider."

There was a moment of utter silence before everyone jumped to their feet at once and started yelling at the top of their voices. Arya closed her eyes and sighed, letting them rant and rave for several minutes before saying, with the power of the ancient language in her voice, "Malthinae onr theyna!" slowly everyone sat back down in their seats, some – like Roran and Nar Garzhvog – setting their chairs right first. "Hold your silence but for a while longer, please. I have not yet finished." Arya stared around at them all and fought the urge to roll her eyes.

"Word reached Angela and myself and so we visited the child, who was being cared for at a healing house by the South Gate. Upon arriving we found the boy ill with fever and close to death. We questioned him but he was too far gone in illness to respond clearly and died before Angela or I could attempt to heal him."

"So you know nothing!" A dwarf demanded, and Arya realised he had gotten to his feet – not that it made any difference.

"_I haven't finished!_" he sat back down. "Angela and I decided that someone had to go and find out what was happening for sure and either confirm or deny the rumours. We also agreed to keep this quiet so as to avoid too much alarm until she had returned with her findings." Arya looked at Nasuada, "That is why I have said nothing as of yet to you, Nasuada; she has not yet returned." Arya threw her gaze around the oval table as Orrin got to his feet once again.

"I have, I am afraid, nothing more to add other than reports of the same rumours involving several villages in the area of Belatona and Feinster. The trouble, it seems, appears to be concentrated around there and heading north rather than south; as if they – whoever _they_ is – are coming to you, Nasuada, here in Ilirea." Silence followed his words.

Lord Fiolr got to his feet, Arya wondered why and how he'd managed to gain a seat in Däthedr's entourage. "Well," he demanded, directing his words to his former queen, "can there be any truth in these rumours?"

In a deadly quiet voice Arya said, "What are you implying Fiolr? That one of my hatchlings has turned against everything that they stand for? Or are you suggesting that Eragon Shadeslayer himself is behind all this?"

He narrowed his eyes. "It was a valid question."

"If you accuse one Rider, you accuse us all Fiolr! Take care in your accusations or I'll let Fírnen incinerate you as he's been longing to do since first meeting you!" Arya relished in her newfound freedom to issue threats like that; as queen she'd been forced to stick to protocol and custom and tradition. As a Rider she was free to insult and offend whoever she wanted in the process of saying and reporting the truth.

But unease had gripped the council chamber at the suggestion that this threat could originate from the east. Panic threatened to engulf her as she saw the direction in which their minds were going and it scared her. She shook her head, her breathing increasing alarmingly and Firnen wasn't anywhere nearby to calm her down. "Eragon would never … he'd never … you _know_ that! He wouldn't …" Any second now she would succumb to the anxiety and Fiolr would accuse _her_ of being behind it all.

"Arya is right," Roran announced abruptly, speaking for the first time in the council, "My brother would _never_ do such a thing – nor would he condone such an act. Until you all realise that then there is little point in us being here!" He then grabbed her upper arm and steered the panicking elf out of the chamber, making sure the door slammed echoingly behind them. Three corridors away he let her go and she stumbled to the wall and sank to the floor with her head between her knees and the anxiety well and truly overwhelming her.

Roran wasn't a stranger to her attacks – she'd had her first one during a visit to Carvahall about a year after Eragon had first left – and he simply sat down on the floor beside her and waited for her to calm down. Eventually her breathing resumed it's normal rate and her hammering chest began to slow as she leant her head against the wall and let out a long, low sigh. "Well that's never happened before."

"Panicking despite no one mentioning the Shade … yeah I thought that was new."

Arya held out her hand to find it shaking; she stared at it in mild interest before clenching her hand into a fist and hugging her knees to her chest. "But they can't think he's behind it all can they? The stupid rumours haven't even been confirmed yet!"

"But there is a valid point," Roran said in a low voice. "All the Riders are with him save for you. And unless you've kept it from us, there has been no new eggs and no new Riders since Yerzogr and Fargoth. If a Dragon Rider is behind this – _if_ – then why?"

Arya shook her head. "I don't believe he's behind this. I don't – for one second – believe that he would be behind this. Not when he lost so much to get us here in the first place."

"Then why did he leave?" Roran shot at her. "Why did he go at the height of his victory?"

Arya glanced at the man beside her in worry, "This is your cousin we're talking about," she reminded him gently. "You and I both know him better than the others in that room; he would not do this."

Roran snorted. "I thought I knew him …"

Arya suddenly got irritated. "Well I knew him – I knew _exactly_ who he was and is. _He would not do this!_"

Eragon's cousin stared at her. "That whole true-name thing huh? Well people change, according to the elves in Carvahall. No one remains who they are forever."

Annoyed and angry, Arya got unsteadily to her feet nearly collapsing due to the numbness in her legs. She clung to the wall for support. "I'm not going to sit here and listen to this! He's your cousin … you grew up with him Roran. How can you so readily believe he's behind all these rumours – that's _if_ they are even true."

She left him sitting against the wall in the corridor and marched through the citadel towards her chambers. Arya refused to believe, even for a minute, that Eragon would do such a thing as the council were all no doubt suggesting. Had they forgotten everything he was capable of? Everything he had done for them? She shook her head in disgust and wished Fírnen was about to calm her agitated thoughts and help her figure out why she had so suddenly panicked when the topic of conversation had been nowhere near Durza and her time in Gil'ead.

Murmuring the word to open the door, Arya slipped inside and made her way to the east facing balcony. Where was he? If there was some problem … some reason for him not sending new eggs through to hatch for Riders then … then why hadn't he contacted them – her? And this mounting sense of something amiss, something so drastically wrong … she shook her head in despair; maybe it was nothing … maybe one of the wild dragon eggs had hatched after all and had decided that humans made for easy and amusing prey …

But she just didn't know.

A knock upon her door startled her and she growled, "Come in," hoping that whoever it was would realised from the tone of her voice that they should just bugger off somewhere and leave her alone right then. They didn't.

"Where's my welcome back party?"

Arya whirled around. "Angela."

"The very same." The witch smiled, duping her luggage on one of the low settees shoved against the wall to make room for Fírnen.

"Well?" the agitated elven Rider demanded. The herbalist's expression turned serious as she faced Arya square on.

"You're not going to like this."

She swore. That sentence was all she needed to hear to know that the rumours were true; that a dragon and Rider were responsible for wreaking havoc upon the south. She swore again in dwarvish, repeating every phrase she knew and improvising some of the lesser ones.

"When you've finished befouling the air," Angela snapped. Arya uttered another choice curse before falling silent. "I can't tell you who, exactly, the Rider is – nor the dragon. I only caught a glimpse of them and it was dark so I can't even say what colour the beast's hide was though it was a dark hue regardless of colour …"

Arya sent out her mind into the surroundings, hoping to stumble across her wayward dragon on his way back from hunting down deer and other such harmless animals to abate his hunger. "Could you tell if they were working alone or if …" she left it hanging, not wanting to even voice what those in the council chambers below were saying.

"I saw no evidence to suggest that Eragon and Saphira are behind this," Angela said kindly. "And nor do I think they have anything to do with it whatsoever. The Rider – whoever it was – and the dragon were far too comfortable in destroying and causing havoc upon innocents. Eragon and Saphira would never condone that – even if there was a reason for them to turn against us they'd never let their Riders be so cruel and evil …"

They remained in silence for a long while until they were startled by Fírnen arriving suddenly, overwhelming both their minds in order to make them jump. He was petty like that at times. _Fírnen! Now is not the time!_ Arya snapped before giving herself over to him completely as he settled down in the space cleared for him.

_Good thing I've just fed myself then isn't it?_

_What do you mean?_

_Well we've got to go and sort this haven't we? Find out who the Dragon and Rider are and either talk them round or kill them._ His bluntness shocked her, until she realised it was a lingering after-effect of his recent hunting; escape from me or die by me.

Angela was watching her intently.

"The others know the basics," Arya said to her as she grabbed Fírnen's saddle and heaved it over to where he lay. "And they know I was waiting for conformation from you as to the situation before I said anything … you'll have to fill them in."

"Oh? And why can't you do that I wonder?"

"Because, as my dragon just pointed out to me, we're the only ones who can reason with this Dragon Rider or stop them." Arya said, buckling the saddle into place and then grabbing her empty pack and stuffing clothes and things she'd need into it. Angela wordlessly gave over her substantial food supply before nodding.

"Fine. Just don't die. That, I must say, would just be depressing. Imagine us having to contact Eragon to tell him 'oh by the way – that elf you were so fond of? Yeah she's dead. Have a nice day!'" Angela quipped before turning to the door. "And mind you watch out for flesh eating slugs!"

_Flesh eating slugs?_

_Ignore her Fírnen._

But as she tied her pack to the back of his saddle and buckled her sword in place upon her hip and her bow slung across her back, Arya suddenly felt afraid; she didn't know what to do. She'd gone into the heart of danger like this many times, but not as a Dragon Rider … and Fírnen had never encountered danger before … the only experience she had fighting another Rider was when she and Fírnen had tutored the hatchlings. What if something happened to him because she didn't know how to protect him? Or because he didn't know how to fight?

_Eragon … I need you._


	14. Pineneedles And Elves

**Pineneedles And Elves**

* * *

><p><em>W<em>_here do you think Blödhgarm went first? Farthen Dûr or Ellesméra?_ Saphira asked as they drifted up towards the elven dock at Ceris.

_Farthen Dûr … he wouldn't have wanted to get swayed to stay in Ellesméra and forget his duty … is that …?_ Up ahead, waiting on the docks stood two elves, one with silver hair and one with black, and Eragon felt the stirring of recognition and a bizarre certainty that this had happened all before – not in the same way perhaps – but the presence of those two elves was a welcome coincidence. He suddenly laughed.

Lifaen and Narí broke out into grins too as they saw the Rider and his dragon. They had guided Eragon, Saphira, Orik and Arya through Du Weldenvarden from Ceris to Ellesméra all those many years ago and time had not altered them; they were as they had remained in Eragon's memories and he was gladder than he realised to see them. Saphira, too, shared in his joy at reuniting with their guides for they were among the most trustworthy and loyal elves to ever serve and protect them both from harm. And – more importantly perhaps – they were friends.

Oromis wondered up beside Eragon, mild curiosity upon his features and Eragon was sure that his master was deliberately acting nonchalant on purpose. A flair for dramatics was an unfortunate side-effect of the bond between a dragon and Rider; the Riders blamed the dragons while the dragons blamed the Riders. Cries of alarm and shock and surprised echoed across the water from Lifaen and Narí and their shouts brought more elves out onto the dock to see what the matter was.

"Now you've done it," Eragon muttered.

Oromis chuckled.

An explanation was demanded almost as soon as the two Riders stepped off the ship and onto firm ground – Eragon swayed slightly as his feet and legs got used to a solid footing rather than the constant swaying of a ship. Oromis held up his hands and spoke in the ancient language, answering the elves' questions in that same mild tone.

"Du Wydra Nángorörh," he said. "I am sure you all know of the legends surrounding it?" they nodded, though Eragon frowned in confusion. "Then do you need much more of an explanation? For the truth you desire was given only to the Riders for a reason."

_I never knew there were tales of Du Wydra Nángorörh,_ Eragon mused to Saphira.

_The elves probably abandoned them when they decided that gods don't exist._

_Probably._ Saphira leapt lightly off the deck of the ship and landed upon the dock. At once all attention was diverted to her as the elves showered her with praises and compliments, which she lapped up accordingly and basked in the attention they gave to her. _And you wonder why there is an aspect about your true name that states your vanity …_

_What about the part of yours that states your reckless and brash?_

He grinned, stepping aside as the elves disembarked from the _Talítha._ Beaum rushed forwards and embraced Lifaen in a warm hug; it was a moment before Eragon remembered Blödhgarm telling him they were brothers. Then Lëyri stepped off the ship. At once the elves forgot about Saphira and instead all crowded round the pregnant elf with wonder upon their faces and awe in their eyes for a child was the most precious of gifts in their culture. Upon the request for the identity of the father, Lëyri's face fell somewhat as she realised there was no way of getting out of the truth; she didn't know.

Narí pushed through the crowd and pulled her into a warm hug. _Is it me or is everyone we know related to someone else we know?_ Saphira asked.

_Seems like it,_ Eragon agreed as he followed behind his master towards Ceris proper. _But Lëyri and Narí are only cousins – as appose to Lifaen and Beaum being brothers._

"We are honoured to have you here, Lord Rider," a female elf said as Eragon sat beside Saphira at the base of a large pine tree.

"It's good to be back," Eragon said when he realised it was _him_ the elf had addressed. "Though we need to reach Ellesméra as soon as we can; events are moving apace and we need to make sure the rulers of these lands are aware of them and the dangers ahead."

"Dangers?" Lifaen asked, "What dangers?"

So a brief explanation was given to the elves of Ceris and it was agreed that Eragon, Oromis and Saphira would depart directly for Ellesméra in the morning while the rest would remain in Ceris for a while before taking the _Talítha _up river to Sílthrim.

"Something has occurred in our capital," Lifaen warned, "though what, precisely word has not yet reached us; all we know is something has happened in Ellesméra."

Oromis frowned, "Thank you, Lifaen-vodhr, your warning is appreciated." But he still looked troubled at news of unease in the elven capital. Eragon too hoped that it was nothing more than court politics as the various families squabbled over control and power of the Knotted Throne. But he was certain Arya and Fírnen were more than a match for whatever petty schemes the lords and ladies had in mind.

_Just think, a few more days and you'll see Fírnen again._

_And you Arya._

Neither tried to hide the overwhelming joy, anticipation, and slight uncertainty at that prospect; it had been sixteen years … anything could've happened in the interim to change them beyond recognition.

An elf emerged from one of the huts, followed by a female with silver hair down to her waist. He recoiled in shock when he saw Eragon and Saphira among the group round the fire. Eragon sprang to his feet. "Blödhgarm!"

The furry elf bowed his head, avoiding his friend's eyes. "Shadeslayer," he murmured touching the first two fingers of his left hand to his lips and beginning the traditional greeting.

A sudden suspicion formed in Eragon's mind then. "You haven't even gotten started on finding if all is well yet have you?" he accused.

Blödhgarm thought about it for a long moment before shaking his head in defeat. "Forgive me … I – I've been … distracted …" he glanced at the female elf at his side and Eragon suddenly burst out laughing at his friend's predicament.

Sobering slightly, Eragon said; "Luckily for you, your task is no longer necessary; I know exactly what is amiss and what is wrong."

"Which is why you are here?"

"Exactly."

The elf nodded and looked round at the others, his eyes widening as he saw Oromis.

"Aren't you going to introduce us?" Eragon teased. He'd had sixteen years of Blödhgarm winding him up first over Arya, then over Lëyri and then over Arya _and_ Lëyri. Revenge could be sweet at times.

She stepped forwards, "I am Delsá of Ília Fëon. Forgive me, Lord Rider … but you cannot deny the heart when it calls, can you?" Blödhgarm had said the same thing to him once.

Eragon decided not to answer that one.

Oromis was hiding his smile behind his hand as he pretended to cough.

_Elves._ Eragon fumed; _They'll either be so formal and stiff like they've got a pole shoved up their behinds or relaxed and laid back like a river – just flowing through without a care in the world. There is no middle ground with them!_

_Not to mention that they're all hopeless romantics at heart … so long as you have the patience to take about a century to court them first. _Saphira added.

"Where will you go from Ellesméra? Will you wait there or go directly to Ilirea?" Blödhgarm asked as he sat beside the fire with Delsá at his side.

Eragon scratched his jaw, noticing absently that he needed a shave, and looked at his master, who rolled his eyes at Eragon's habit of seeking advice and palming off responsibility to someone else. When Oromis didn't, Eragon answered; "Time is off the essence; we'll inform Ellesméra of the situation and go directly to Ilirea, then to Aberon and from there to Farthen Dûr. Once we've let everyone know, _then_ we can work out where to base ourselves and what we can do next."

Blödhgarm nodded, thinking fast. "It's about five days as the crow flys from here to Ellesméra – sorry as the dragon flys – and then six from Ellesméra to Ilirea. Assuming you linger in Du Weldenvarden's capital for a couple of days, and if the elves of Ceris are agreeable; on elven horseback I can meet you in Ilirea three days after you arrive."

"_We_ can meet them you mean," Delsá corrected.

Lifaen and Narí exchanged a look before Narí nodded, "We have about a dozen or so horses with us here in Ceris: you can leave as Eragon Shadeslayer does in the morning."

"Why do you want to come to Ilirea?" Eragon asked curiously.

Blödhgarm shifted uncomfortably – as if embarrassed about explaining his reasons, but it was Oromis who answered. The old Rider had been staring absently into the flames appearing not to listen to a word that was being said. "Because his duty is to protect you and serve you; when Islanzadí charged him with his task during the war, it wasn't _just_ for the duration of our campaign against Galbatorix. Blödhgarm will go wherever you can and protect you and serve you as best he can for as long as he can. He is onr skölir edoc'sil."

Eragon looked at his friend in a new light, stunned that the elf had agreed to a lifelong servitude to someone who had barely proven himself a man at the time.

"Why … why?" Eragon asked, now rather embarrassed himself that Blödhgarm had chosen to obey and serve him.

The elf shrugged, still avoiding the Rider's eye.

"My father was Vrael's skölir edoc'sil and since you were the last best hope we had …" he shrugged, and gave Eragon a cryptic smile. "I'll admit at first I did begin to regret my decision – until Belatona that is."

_Unconquerable shield … the elves have rather strange terms for things don't they?_ Saphira said to Eragon as she lifted her head up off the ground and stretched her long neck.

_It's all that excessive literature – the metaphors and so forth have leaked through into everyday life and now they much prefer to use cryptic terms to describe someone than straight forward words like normal people. I wonder why Blödhgarm never mentioned this before._

_Probably because he's embarrassed to be seen as a willing subordinate to you. I mean you don't look all that impressive – for someone who's saved the world._

_Ah that's because I don't want to show you up!_ Eragon grinned, _It would hardly do now for the Rider to outlook the dragon now would it?_

Saphira seemed pleased with his answer and hummed deep in her throat as they settled down for the night; Eragon lay on his back, staring through the pineneedles at the stars as they blinked into existence far above him. Finally the black night faded into deep blue and then to the dull lifeless grey of predawn and Eragon stirred, sat up and looked around. Most of the elves that had accompanied him east had returned to the _Talítha _last night, and the elves of Ceris had all taken to their huts. Oromis, however, remained as Eragon had last seen him; staring absently into the now dead fire with an expression of deep thought upon his timeless face.

Not wanting to disturb him, Eragon paced lightly to the ship and into his cabin where he located his belongings, shoving them all hastily back into his pack, the chest where the eldunarí were stored and Saphira's saddle. With difficulty he stepped back onshore and treaded his way through the pines to the campfire where Saphira was stirring. Oromis had stoked up the fire in his absence and an older elf had emerged from one of the huts to prepare breakfast.

The elf glanced curiously at the chest but at the look from both Riders and the low growl from Saphira, he asked no questions despite the curiosity that was no doubt eating him alive. Eragon was thankful Oromis had had the foresight to swear all the elves aboard the _Talítha_ to secrecy regarding the eldunarí. It was a secret he didn't like the world to know about.

_Do with this chest as you would normally do when transporting us_, Glaedr told him. Eragon waited for the elf to step out of sight before quickly murmuring the many phrases in the ancient language that would deposit the chest full of eldunarí in its own personal pocket of space and time. When the elf returned with a large bowl of bright berries, he frowned at the disappearance of the chest he wasn't allowed to know about but said nothing. Oromis disappeared to the ship for his own things and returned a good ten minutes later with his pack over his shoulder.

Eager to be off, the two Riders quickly saddled Saphira and tied their packs in place before turning down breakfast and clambering up her scaly hide to settle in place on her back. _Ready?_ She asked as Eragon gripped the neck spike in front of him, absently remembering how small it had once been, while his master shifted behind him.

"Let us be off, Bjartskular," he said and Saphira leapt into the air, clearing the tops of the pines and heading steadily north-west towards the elven capital, Ellesméra. As Blödhgarm predicted, it took them five days to get there; flying over vast expanses of green pines below them broken by the occasional glade or lake or the lone hill. On the fifth day, Oromis said loudly over the wind; "Most of the wards have been disabled … and I cannot sense the presence of Gilderien the Wise. Either something is amiss here and we are too late, or his presence guarding Ellesméra is no longer required. Though I cannot see a why he would abandon his post when he has guarded the city since Du Fyren Skulblaka."

"He wields the White Flame of Vándil, doesn't he? Which is why he was chosen … can another take his place?" Eragon called back.

He glanced over his shoulder to see Oromis shaking his head. "Not unless they are chosen by the Flame."

_That makes no sense whatsoever_, Saphira remarked.

_There is much I did not get the chance to teach you_, Oromis agreed gently. "If there is time, I shall, of course, rectify that problem." He promised as Saphira settled upon the ground on the outskirts of the city. The two Riders dismounted and Eragon gripped the hilt of his sword while Oromis reached for the bow Eragon had let him borrow. They exchanged a look before turning to the dragon behind them.

_I'll wait for you at the Crags of Tel'naeír._ She said, jumping into the air, _But let me know what is happening here._

_Of course – and be careful!_

_I'm always careful._

Eragon watched her disappear into the sky and forced himself to let go of Brisingr's hilt. He followed Oromis into the city, taking slow deliberate steps as they stuck to the lesser paths and the shadows, wondering where everyone was and why no one was around to welcome them or deny the entry into the pinewood city.

"Let's go find Rhunön," Oromis suggested in a low whisper. "Whatever is going on here, she will have naught to do with it."

"Unless Murtagh and Thorn have been and gone."

Oromis shook his head. "The forest would be burning if that's the case. No this has everything to do with court politics; something has stirred up the court and the common folk are staying indoors until it dies down."

"I hope you're right."

"I'm always right … except for when I'm wrong."

Eragon didn't respond. Instead he drew his blade and took the lead, thanking the skills he'd honed as a boy in Carvahall tracking game deep into the Spine; the patience and stealth required were serving him well now. Twice the two Riders ducked behind bushes and tree trunks as various elves of differing importance hurried through the city. At the dogwood tunnel entrance to Rhunön's forge, they sheathed their weapons and hurried along it, emerging through the other side to find the blacksmith tinkering away with a fine file as she crafted something with diminutive detail. Eragon and Oromis knew better than to interrupt her while she worked and so they sat down and waited patiently for her to finish.

A good hour and a half passed before the elf laid aside her tool and looked up at them. She showed no indication of surprised at their appearance in her workshop; one of them was supposed to be dead while the other far away in the east.

"About time you showed up," she grunted.

"I take it then, that things are bad?" Oromis said mildly.

She grunted again. "Fiolr tried to usurp Arya, so she abdicated instead. Now that fool Däthedr is on the throne and his House's warriors are patrolling the city keeping Fiolr's from taking over. Däthedr took Fiolr with him when he went to Ilirea so the slimy git wouldn't try and usurp _him_. For a fool Däthedr seems to be handling kingship quite well."

Eragon frowned at that bit of news as he relayed it to Saphira. It explained a lot. "Arya was forced to abdicate?"

Oromis glanced at him before shrugging as if it was no big deal, "Islanzadí never wanted her burdened by the crown anyway. She just never figured out a way to actually _tell_ her daughter that before Arya went back to the Varden; she died before she got the chance to talk to Arya about it properly."

Rhunön rolled her eyes, "Speaking of the dead, aren't you supposed to be one of them?"

Oromis smiled. "Du Wydra Nángorörh, Rhunön-elda."

She snorted, "Those bedtime stories! Ha! Well I suppose you'll be wanting _this_ back then won't you?"

Rhunön stormed to the other side of her workshop and rummaged around in a cupboard before straightening up with a cloth wrapped bundle in her arms. She plonked it down carefully on her workbench and proceeded to unwrap the thing. Oromis got to his feet in wonder as his blade, Naegling, was revealed. He shrugged out of the bow Islanzadí had made for Eragon and thrust it into the other Rider's arms as he stepped up to the bench.

"When you fell, Islanzadí had divers retrieve this from the bottom of Isenstar Lake. Since I made it, my claim to it was the soundest and so Arya gave it me." She gave Oromis a long hard look, "But I suppose I could let you have it back … that's if you think you'll be needing it of course."

"I'm afraid so," Oromis said gravely. "For the murderer Morzan walked the path before me and has joined his son against us. Also the fiend Durza is once more abroad in the world. I fear I will have need of my blade before this is done."

The blacksmith nodded. "I assume you want all your previous wards upon it? Those to defend you when you have your episodes?"

Both Eragon and Oromis frowned at that and shared another look. "Ebrithil," Eragon said then even as his master thought the words himself, "In all the time you have been back – I have not seen you suffer once from your malady."

He was staring out of the window. "No," he said softly, "I have not have I?" Then he spun on his heel and said to Eragon; "Stop me," and before Eragon had a chance to work out what he meant, Oromis had uttered deeply in the ancient language three words of power and Eragon's legs were bound in place with an invisible force.

He was reminded wryly of one of his first lessons with Oromis when he had tested the elf's patience too much only for the elf's power to be denied him. Gritting his teeth, Eragon dug into his own flow of energy and said, "brakka du vanyalí se huildar eka," and felt the power leave him. He stared at his master as it came down to a battle of wills between them as Oromis strove to test himself and push himself into one of the episodes that was the result of being broken by the Forsworn. Sweat formed on Eragon's brow as he struggled with maintaining the spell to counteract Oromis's and he refused aid from Saphira when she offered it for that would only be unfair to their master since Glaedr was steadfast ignoring him.

Finally, Eragon had to give up the magic lest it consume him and with a gasp he severed the flow and stood there, held in place by Oromis's spell, panting. They'd been battling it out for a good half hour and Rhunön had gotten bored for she was busy with the sculpture she'd been working on earlier when Eragon and Oromis had arrived. With a gasp Oromis stopped the spell and staggered to the chair, as Eragon – not prepared for the sudden release – collapsed onto the floor.

_I think he won._ Saphira remarked smugly.

_I think he is cured._

_Well … that too._


	15. Tis I: Bromsson

**'Tis I: Bromsson**

* * *

><p><em>A<em>_re you sure it's wise leaving the eggs with Rhunön?_

"Only Eragon or I can actually _open_ the vault Saphira. She's just standing guard the entrance until we have sorted this issue … though I am surprised that more of the eldunarí didn't want to aid us." They were once again flying above the pines, this time heading south to Ilirea.

_To be fair, most of them did perish when we closed the breach. They probably don't want to risk perishing like the others did._

"Did you find out what happened to Gilderien?" Oromis asked Eragon. He shook his head.

"No. No one seemed to realise he was missing. I tasked Lady Gilá with finding out what happened to him, but she was reluctant to pull her warriors out of the city … understandable I suppose; Däthedr still has to consolidate his position upon that throne." Eragon scratched absently at his arm as a gust of wind buffeted him slightly. "It didn't take you long to create the vault then?"

After establishing that Oromis was indeed crippled no more, they had beseeched Rhunön into watching over the dragon eggs and eldunarí while they set off to stop Murtagh and Thorn in whatever foul deeds they had planned. Eragon had departed to find out the situation of the elven court, the fate of Ellesméra's guardian and the whereabouts of that emerald green dragon and his Rider. While he'd been roaming Tialdarí Hall, Oromis had used the time to sing the roots of the dogwood trees of Rhunön's tunnel into a vault beneath the surface of the earth so they'd have a temporary place to hide and store the dragon eggs and eldunarí. Infusing the surrounding area with wards and other protective spells that fed off the life of the plants in the forest, Oromis had ensured the safety of the unhatched dragons and the consciousness's of the long departed dragons of old.

"Not as long as I thought; though Rhunön was more a hindrance than a help; I take it Brisingr passed her inspection with flying colours."

Eragon grunted. "I think she just wanted an excuse to see it and hold it again."

"Probably," Oromis agreed, "She surpassed herself in the creation of that sword … even if she had to go about it through you."

They didn't speak much over the next few days; all three of them were eager to reach their destination and the near constant travel over the past weeks was wearing both Eragon and Saphira down. They needed a rest and a respite. Thankfully they encountered no storms or foul weather as they crossed the desert and the warm air coming off the desert floor wafted Saphira higher and further than she could've flown unaided.

On the sixth day the city of Ilirea came into view; rebuilt and splendid in the bright light of the morning sun and the Ramr River glinting beside it as it flowed past without pausing to stop and look upon the beauty of Ilirea. "You wouldn't believe it's been less than two decades since that city was known as The Black City of Urû'baen." Eragon marvelled.

"Aye, it is amazing what can be achieved in a short space of time when one put one's mind to it."

By mid-morning Saphira was wafting gently over the battlements and ramparts of the outer walls while below cries of wonder, awe, fear and alarm were spread. It was as if the appearance of such a legendary Dragon and Rider was too good to be true that it rendered those in the streets speechless and incapable. Saphira settled down upon the courtyard before the citadel and watched as the vast doors opened and a hoard of people spilled out down the steps towards them.

"I shall wait here," Oromis murmured. "Try and direct them to some hall or chamber where we can discuss everything in private. Once you have the destination Saphira and I will meet you there." Eragon nodded as he unbuckled the straps holding his legs in place. "Here, put this on; it'll make you look more impressive. Oromis handed him a wealth of light sapphire material that Eragon realised was a cloak. He fastened it under his throat and swung his leg over the saddle's pommel so he was sitting side saddle.

_Good luck, little one. _Eragon jumped to the floor, landing in a crouch and straightened, the gentle breeze stirring the light material of his new cloak as Saphira launched herself into the air again. _Keep a look out for Fírnen – I don't sense him or Arya nearby_.

With his left hand resting on the pommel of his sword, Eragon watched as the crowd reached the bottom of the stairs and halted, clearly waiting for him to come to them. However Eragon stood his ground and in the test of patience, he won as Nasuada, Orik, Orrin, Nar Garzhvog and Däthedr strode forwards to him. He sighed inwardly at the looks on their faces and at the prospect of a long and tedious strain of formalities; they didn't have time to dawdle.

"Is it really you?" Nasuada asked as she and the other leaders stopped a few feet from Eragon. He looked at them all – time had altered them in differing ways. Orrin had gotten fat, Nasuada older, Orik gruffer, Garzhvog wearier, and Däthedr just looked tiered.

He bowed, not in a way that suggested he was beneath them, but that said he was honouring them; in his native tongue – which he hadn't spoken in sixteen years – he said; "Aye, 'tis I: Bromsson. Eragon Shadeslayer … Lord Rider they call me … and Firesword … but yes. It is I; for I have indeed returned."

They all looked as if there was about a hundred thousand things they wanted to say to him at once, but he simply held up his hand, forestalling them. "We have, I know, years of catching up to do but now is not the time. All is far from well in Alagaësia – which is why Saphira and I have come back to you now – and much must be done to put it right once more." He looked around, unable to hold off the question any longer and hoping they didn't all jump immediately to the conclusion that was his only reason for being there. "Where is Arya and Fírnen?"

A frown creased Nasuada's face at that question, though mirth did shine in her eyes briefly before hand – the reasoning unfathomable to Eragon. "We have much to tell you; we'll go directly to the council chamber – come, _Lord Rider_."

Eragon followed them as they wove through the corridors of the castle. Saphira and Oromis had found another way into the chamber and were already waiting for them there. Nasuada was talking to Orik, who was nodding while Däthedr seemed reluctant. When they reached the room in question, Eragon waited for the cries of shock when Oromis was spotted for the first time and sure enough, as soon as the first elf stepped inside, a cry rang forth and pandemonium sprung up as everyone crowded in to see what the problem was.

Eragon slipped unnoticed inside and saw his master sitting, seemingly at ease, at one end of a large oval table that took up the entire room. Weaving through the crowd, Eragon sat down a few seats along from him while Saphira curled up into a comfortable position on the floor to watch the proceedings. Taking his cue from Oromis, Eragon remained silent as the group all spluttered and yelled and cried out and demanded in loud voices an explanation. Trouble was it was difficult to hear anything over all the noise, and the panic needed to run its course before they could listen fully. Eventually the noise subsided as, one by one, everyone took their seats at the oval table and turned expectantly to the two Riders and the dragon.

"Well?"

Eragon looked up at that and sort out the source of the demand. Lord Fiolr.

_Idiot should never have forced Arya off that throne. He should've known she'd never let him take it himself._ Saphira muttered.

Eragon shrugged, "I'm still waiting for a response to my question Fiolr so you'll just have to wait won't you?"

"What question?" Oromis asked curiously.

"I asked where Arya and Fírnen are for we were told that they were here, but clearly they are not else we would've encountered them by now."

Nasuada got to her feet, smoothing out her dress and turning to Eragon. "We've had reports of unsettling news from the south," she began. "A Dragon Rider terrorising villages and towns. Arya and Fírnen have gone to deal with the situation."

There was a resounding silence after she finished and everyone stared intently at Eragon, Oromis and Saphira.

"If I didn't know better," Eragon said softly yet with a definite hard edge to his voice, "I'd say that was an accusation, wouldn't you ebrithil?"

"The implications were that it was," Oromis agreed.

Eragon rose slowly to his feet and looked at the rulers and their advisors; he was livid. How dare they … how dare they assume that – just because a Rider and dragon were creating havoc – he was behind it, that he was responsible for it? How dare they chose the easy option – the one that didn't have to be thought about too much – and blame him? How dare they decide that because he was not there to defend himself he must be guilty? Had they forgotten everything he had done for them? They wouldn't be sitting there if it wasn't for him!

_Don't get too angry … they're just afraid_. Oromis said gently.

_Of what?_

_That they're facing the unknown. Blaming you, they have a face to the enemy – they can pretend they know what they're up against. It's nothing personal._

_You don't know that!_

_Steady … you're the Lord Rider remember, you're above rash and impulsive behaviour._ Saphira snorted in amusement at that.

Eragon took a deep breath and stared hard at them all as they cowered slightly in their seats. "_Why are you accusing me!_" he said in a deadly quiet voice. He had a feeling they would've preferred it if he'd shouted. He strove to let every ounce of rage, disappointment and annoyance flow into his voice as he'd spoken and the effect seemed to be what he wanted. Shame dripped off their faces as they realised how pathetic and stupid they'd been with their charges. He let them wallow in their own self-pity for a while before continuing as if the allegations had never been placed.

"You want explanations; I appreciate that. But know that I cannot give them all to you for this involves secrets that only the Riders know of – and perhaps should've been kept even from us." He looked round, "But know this then at least, for now; you seek for a name to put behind all this – a face you can accuse. Then here it is; Murtagh. Murtagh and Thorn are even now planning and plotting to bring us down – why, I do not know and how? How I cannot say for I do not know that either."

Unease gripped the room as muttering began to spread, originating from the dwarves and spreading like wildfire. "I know." Eragon said somewhat sharply. "I forgot about them too … I – I believed they'd turned aside from the road of evil …" he looked down at the table and sighed, "It seems I was wrong. Forgive me … I was wrong."

He sat down. Oromis looked at him speculatively before nodding in approval. _Very well done, Bromsson_, Umaroth the eldunarí said to him. _But you do owe them a full explanation sometime; it is unwise to keep them in the dark._

_It is also unfair to give them answers before we give them to Arya and Fírnen; they deserve them more than these rulers do ebrithil._

_That and Arya will slap you if you tell anyone before you tell her_, Saphira added. _How are we going to explain Oromis?_

_Ah hello,_ their master said, joining in the mental conversation while the council all debated the news that it was Murtagh behind it all. _I was wondering if you had any bright ideas about that since you don't want to risk angering onr istalrí_.

Eragon ignored him.

_We don't know she is his istalrí Oromis._ Eragon, Saphira, Umaroth and Oromis froze as Glaedr spoke directly to his Rider for the first time; however he quickly returned to himself and ignored all forms of contact from any of them. Eragon could see the hurt flicker across his master's face and felt a pang of sympathy that wasn't enough for he could not possibly understand.

At a demand from the elves in particular at _how_ it could be that Oromis was sitting easily in a chair at the table, Eragon and Saphira fended Däthedr off with vague hints and explanations that basically all meant that it was secret that the belonged to the Riders and that to tell him – or anyone outside the order – would instantly kill them all because that was the way Eragon Peacebringer had constructed the spells surrounding the secrets. Eragon was thankful they weren't conversing in the ancient language for he doubted that he'd have gotten past the first sentence if they had been.

Later that evening, Eragon and Saphira were lazing in a lounge three floors above the council chamber after having discarded their belongings in the Riders' rooms at the very top of the stronghold. He'd bathed and eaten while Saphira had ransacked the animal pens by the kitchen for a live cow or two; Oromis had disappeared into the library when they'd strolled past it and Eragon had decided to leave him to it. When questioned about it, the old elf wasn't at all surprised that Arya had become the third Rider of the eggs in Galbatorix's possession. In fact he'd wondered off into the library musing aloud at why Saphira hadn't hatched for her and chosen Eragon instead.

They weren't alone in the room; Roran, Katrina, Nasuada, Baldor, and Elain, Orik and his wife Hvedra, and Angela were all sitting talking with their various children – or at least Roran's children and Nasuada's children. It had been very hard to maintain a straight face when he had been informed that one of his closest childhood friends had married the leader of the Varden. He'd also taken three steps back when offered a chance to hold the infant princess Orianah; he didn't think he'd be able to curb the bitterness at being denied a child of his own if he did.

Roran's two sons – twins by the names of Garrow and Cadoc – and Nasuada's son Ajihad were all staring at Eragon with the rapt and awe filled looks of boys who couldn't quite believe that they were finally meeting their hero. It reminded him of the way Adiré had sometimes behaved when they'd first set out on their journey for the east. To say that the attention unnerved him was the biggest understatement of the century.

Ismira and Hope were currently keeping the infant Orianah occupied while the boys – though the twins weren't much more than eight and Ajihad considerably older – sat with carved wooden figures of soldiers before the cold fire grate as they did war upon one another. The werecat Solembum was curled up between Cadoc and Garrow, his tail flickering occasionally, watching the game without much interest. Saphira was pretending to be asleep.

He spent the remainder of the day attempting to re-establish his connection to his family and friends and tried not to slip too much into the 'elfish' habits he'd picked up during his sixteen year self-imposed-exile with Blödhgarm and the others. If he backslided then then the humans and dwarves in the room didn't make an issue of it and carried on the conversation in the knowledge that he'd return to it when he was ready. If he was truthful he now understood why it was Oromis had chosen to hide out in the library; after the company of very few for so long, large crowds and a diverse mixture of races and backgrounds was like him being tossed into the middle of a battle field … naked and with no means to defend himself.

That night he tossed and turned in the soft feather bed, finding it too comfortable for his liking; when he lay in his bed in the cabin of the ship, he could feel the hardness of the bed frame through the mattress. Eventually he got up and settled down beside Saphira, staring out of the full length open windows at the starry night while sounds of life flittered up through to him and owls hooted and the odd wolf howled.

Next day he spent determined to drag Oromis away from the books and scrolls knowing that so long as he remained there, the more rumours and discontent would be spread about his return and the validity of it. Eragon therefore took the time to introduce his master to his friends and family and to the rulers of the lands they were currently residing in. All through the day however, worry and concern gnawed at Eragon's gut as no word reached Ilirea from the south. Saphira too was anxious and uneasy about the silence from Arya and Fírnen; and they both decided to wait another day before flying out to find them.

As he'd predicted, Blödhgarm arrived the following day with Delsá, though much to Eragon's surprise, they were also accompanied by Lifaen, Narí, Lëyri and Adiré. Eragon sought out the company of his dragon as the women all crowded round the pregnant elf as if it were a novelty – which it was. It wouldn't take long, he realised dully, for stories and gossip to spread about his involvement with Lëyri and how she had kept from him the fact that the child wasn't actually Eragon's. Sure enough his cousin and foster brother sought him out before the day was done and asked for his version of events.

Orik sighed heavily when Eragon finished and leant back in his chair as the three of them sat upon a balcony off some hall in the southern part of the keep. Roran reached for the mead and refilled their goblets as Eragon waited for their verdict.

"Well … at least you don't have the prospect of fathering a bastard upon you," Roran said without thinking and Eragon grew irritated at once.

"Oh? And what am I Roran?" he shook his head and got to his feet and leant against the balcony wall while Orik explained a few things to the Earl of Palencar Valley.

"Elves don't marry," he said. "They just take mates for a long as they want – a day or a century. Think about it though, if you were immortal like that, do you honestly think you could stand being married to the same woman for centuries and centuries?"

"Yes." He said at once and Eragon snorted.

"Oh so Katrina doesn't have any habits that drive you close to insane then?" Orik quipped. "Even mine own people are far less concerned about whether or not a child is born out of wedlock or not and the legitimacy of the child; at the end of the day a son is a son and if you give him the chance he'll do you proud. Look at Eragon here; champion of bastards he is!"

But Eragon wasn't listening. _Nothing?_ He asked Saphira.

_No sign of them. _

_Then we'll go find them tomorrow_. Eragon promised, not really seeing the southern landscape before him as Roran and Orik continued their debate behind him. The sun was setting to his right, staining the river red and casting long shadows across the plains of Ilirea. Evander had died out there, Eragon mused, and then a century later that battle field had claimed his mate, Islanzadí as she fought the same battle he had, only that time they'd won.

It was sometime before he realised what it was he was seeing; far in the distance a shape was speeding rapidly through the sunset towards the city, flying faster than any bird could. Only when a good ten minutes had passed did Eragon make out the shape into something recognisable and his heart leapt. Either it was them or it was danger. _Saphira!_

_I see!_

He jumped up and stood, balanced perfectly, upon the narrow wall of the balcony as he watched the dragon speed ever closer. He gripped Brisingr firmly in his right hand, though he did not draw the blade. Another ten minutes and he swore he'd seen a glimpse of green from the dragon's scales … if Orik and Roran were still there behind him they'd long fallen into silence or gone. After watching the dragon for another half an hour Eragon was certain there was no threat. He released his hold on his sword and smiled as Saphira's eyes confirmed what he'd knew. It was them.

_And what adventures have you been up to my friend? And how dare you embark upon them without me!_


	16. Fight Me Rider (part one)

**Fight Me Rider (part one)**

* * *

><p><em>Be careful! I don't like this silence …<em>

_I'll be fine … you just stay out of sight until I call you._

_Until you get yourself into bother you mean._

_Fírnen … stop worrying._

_Hypocrite. _He muttered in the back of her mind as she made her way through the brush to the dirt track road leading into the nameless village three miles northwest of Belatona. But to be fair to him, Fírnen _did_ have a point … however Arya had much more experience with danger than he had; she knew how to defend herself against an enemy whereas the only experience Fírnen had was the exercises he'd put the hatchlings through when they had trained them. She wasn't about to risk any harm to him unless there was a need – unless the Rider and their dragon showed up.

Arya pulled the hood of her cloak up over her head to hide her pointed ears and made sure that her blade – Támerlein – was covered. The green-hued sheath and fine craftsmanship would instantly attract attention for swords weren't usually coloured unless they belonged to a Dragon Rider. Even so, a woman seemingly travelling alone would still have an air of unusualness about it in the newer parts of Orrin's kingdom. Therefore, Arya proceeded with caution as she drew level with the first few houses of the village.

It was erringly silent and her hand veered towards the hilt of her sword as she turned a corner and paced towards the village square. She could feel the minds and presence of the villagers, all cowering behind closed windows and locked doors as she passed and wondered what had happened to make them react so to a stranger. Just when she decided that she ought to swiftly make her exit, several doors burst open and a crowd of ragged men and assorted boys came running out of two separate buildings.

They quickly surrounded her, encircling Arya with pitchforks and knives all pinning her in place. _Stay where you are!_ She snapped at her dragon as she sensed him about to take off and just add more panic and confusion. _They're only scared … let me talk to them._ She slowly withdrew her hand away from the hilt of her sword and held them both up level with her ears in surrender. Arya knew that Fírnen was perfectly aware that she was gambling at lot on principle that these villagers would at least demand to know her business first before the killed her.

_I swear I'll drop you into the middle of Leona Lake for this!_

_Please don't … I love you too._

"Surrender up your weapon, lower your hood, tell us why you are in Leavall!" A gruff voice demanded.

"And if I refuse?" Arya asked.

"We will kill you where you stand!"

After a long moment, Arya shook back her hood getting not a few gasps from the crowd as they saw, firstly that she was a woman, and secondly that she was an elf. Arya thanked her forethought to put on gloves for they hid the giveaway mark of the Riders on her left palm.

There were cries of shock and alarm and the word 'magic' was spread like wildfire throughout the crowd. Those closest to her held onto their weapons with a firmer grip. Arya swiftly removed her belt with Támerlein attached and threw it to the floor beside her before once again lifting her hands level with her ears. "I give you my word," she said, "I will not use any magic."

A movement in the crowd caught her eye and a burly man, wild and looking as if he belonged in the forests of the Spine not down south by the shores of Lake Leona, stepped forwards with a finely carved spear in his hand and a dagger at his waist. Arya met his gaze and could feel the suspicion in his mind and the fear in the minds of the others who held her at weapon-point. She had to find out what had happened to these villagers to install such a fear into them. And quickly. Fírnen wouldn't wait forever.

"What business does an elf have in these parts?" the man asked.

"You tell me your name, and why such precautions are necessary in times of peace and maybe I will speak in turn."

There was a spattering of laughter in the assembled men of the village. "You don't give the orders here, _elf_." The man who seemed to be in charge said. "You fail to grasp that you are at our mercy right now."

"And will you murder an innocent and risk a war between Orrin and the elves of Du Weldenvarden?" Arya's voice was sharp. "Forgive me but your forces would last less than a week!"

_Was that really the wisest thing to say?_ For every man had bristled and they were all now yammering words like 'hanging' and 'burning' at her latest statement.

_Probably not._

But before anyone could reply, a boy of about six came sprinting round a corner as if the spirits of a Shade were upon him. "They're coming!" he yelled. "The dragon's coming!"

_Fírnen I said to stay put!_

_I am put! _He grumbled … _it must be the renegade Angela and Solembum spotted._

_Stay out of sight and please don't do anything until I call you!_

_What if they start to burn the village?_

Arya thought about it as the villagers all yammered and more doors opened as wives and children all came spilling into the square at the boy's shouted message. _Then we act. But I'd prefer to have the village on side._

"Inside! Quick!" the gruff man ordered at once. "All of you … and tie that elf up – we'll deal with it afterwards! Hurry!"

_It?_ Arya was offended.

Someone grabbed her from behind and her instinct to fight back kicked in automatically. Yet without her sword or the use of magic she realised it would be a lot less hassle to just give in and let them bind her. Though her pride was a little hurt that she'd given in so easily to a bunch of primitive humans who could barely tie their shoelaces.

The villagers were all scattering into houses and slamming doors shut. The gruff man who seemed to be in charge waved a bunch of frightened looking children into the carpenter's shop before snatching up her abandoned sword and following suit. It appeared he owned the place and as Arya was dragged across the street she couldn't help but admire the skill of the spear he had wielded.

Her captors fled to the hay barn and cast her aside on the floor as they strove to close the heavy doors. Arya would've offered help but she had a feeling they would just refuse her so she watched as the doors closed with an echoing boom of wood on wood. And not a moment too soon it appeared for there came the earth juddering thud of a dragon landing nearby.

As a young man – probably only recently passed into adulthood – tied a strip of sackcloth tightly round her wrists, a voice echoed through the wooden slats of the barn and Arya's blood ran cold as guilt flooded into her. Through her bond with Fírnen she could feel his too. They knew that voice well … too well. _At least my arms aren't bound behind my back,_ Arya thought as she joined the ten or so villagers at the doors and walls, peering through the cracks to see the square.

"Come on out," Yerzogr said. The Urgal stepped down from Nexx's saddle and looked around at the empty square while the violet dragon accidently on purpose knocked in the stone wall around the village well. "I know you're here … come on _out_!"

A door creaked open and the gruff looking man stepped out of the carpentry and stood with his home crafted spear in one hand and Arya's sword – the belt wrapped round the emerald sheath – in the other.

"Just one!" Yerzogr spat on the ground.

"I speak for my village. What do you want?" Nexx shifted around on the ground to look at the man as Yerzogr drew his own sword. His eyes darted to Arya's sword and a frown creased his ugly face and his horns caught in the afternoon sunlight.

"Run. Or die." Yerzogr said grinning. He jumped back onto Nexx's back, "You have until this time tomorrow." Nexx kicked over the tanner's store as she sprang into the air, sending out a jet of flames as she went and instantly setting a row of houses on the edge of the village alight. Nexx circled the village as Yerzogr called out in the ancient language, "Come and fight me Rider! I know you're here … _ebrithilar!_"

_Barzûl knurlar!_ Arya swore in dwarvish. _Curse them!_

_What do I do?_

_Stay … we can deal with them tomorrow._

_Our hatchlings …_ Fírnen moaned.

Arya felt a pang in her chest. _I know_, she whispered. _Let us hope that Fargoth and Ornthronde are not here also._

She was left in the barn while the villages of the unnamed settlement hurried to quench the flames and presumably, meet and decide what they should do. Arya restlessly paced the barn with her hands still bound in front of her wondering if they were going to come back to her or not. She could free herself and reclaim her sword with little effort, but it might impair any chances of a workable relationship with these villagers if she did so. Though she had not uttered it in the ancient language, she still felt bound by her promise not to use magic.

The sun had begun to set by the time she was fetched from the barn. During that time Arya had formulated half a plan which – as Fírnen so kindly pointed out – was based upon a lot of 'ifs' and 'possiblys' and 'perhapses'. She'd told him to shut up and sit tight, which he hadn't liked and so now that she needed his input, he was busy sulking and refusing to let her in. Typical.

Arya was taken to the tavern and marched to the centre of a ring of onlookers while the gruff carpenter and a few other elders all muttered and cursed behind the tavern bar. "The elf woman, Jok" the man at Arya's right called to the carpenter. He turned and let out a snort. Her sword, she saw, was lying on the tavern counter. At least he hadn't the nerve to attach it to his hip.

"Well now I understand why such the warm welcome," she said brightly.

"Hit her," Jok the carpenter said.

The man on her right raised his fist and Arya said quickly, "Didn't your mother ever teach you never to hit a woman lest you forfeit your right to be a man?" the fist was lowered. Turning to the gruff wild looking carpenter, Arya said. "I can help you. Me and my dr – my friend … we can help you to stop him. To fight him."

Jok shook his head. He walked forwards and pulled his dagger from his belt. Arya's heart quickened in alarm and she took an involuntary step back. However the man cut the bonds from her wrists and walked back to the edge of the circle. "Fight? No. We are leaving … we will not die here at the hands of a Dragon Rider," he sounded dejected and as though all hope was lost.

Anger sparked inside Arya that a village could be so cowardly. She had thought that the bravery of Eragon's home was universal among humans. But now she realised that maybe it was only because they had the likes of Eragon and Roran among them that Carvahall had been so brave. "You must stay! You must fight!"

With a twisted smile Jok asked, "How Pretty? How? We're simple villagers for god's sake. We cannot compete with the likes of them!"

"Carvahall did it." She knew instantly that she'd said the wrong thing.

The carpenter laughed and spat on the floor as a rumbling spread through the crowd. "Pah! They were up against mere men! Not a bloody great dragon and its murderous Rider!" the other villagers all murmured in assent.

"But you have something Carvahall didn't … you have me. And – and my friend."

Jok laughed again and sauntered over to Arya. He stopped so he stood toe-to-toe with her and leered over her as if he thought that would intimidate her or something. She would never admit that for a second he succeeded; this man was truly wild … wilder even than the people of Carvahall had appeared when she'd first met them as they stepped down off the ship beside the Burning Plains.

"You? One elf. A woman besides … how is that going to help us?"

"Because I am a Dragon Rider." She then pulled off her glove and lifted her palm to show her captors the gedwëy ignasia.

Jok the carpenter took a step back. His sharp eyes darted from the hardness of her eyes to the mark on her hand, to the fineness of her clothing and then – unwholesomely – to the way that her clothing fitted around her body. She was dangerously close to disliking this man … but she needed him too much to let her irritation at his obvious lust show … for now.

"You … you're … you are Arya Islanzadísdaughter aren't you?" a woman asked then in the silence that had followed her announcement. "That elven Queen's daughter who was captured by the Shade and rescued by Eragon Shadeslayer and then fought alongside him when he slayed the Mad King Galbatorix. I am right aren't I?"

Startled Arya turned her attention away from the carpenter to see a woman with two children clutching her skirts and a third balanced upon her hip, looking at her with wide eyes. How had her name reached such a desolate place? Eragon's yes but hers … surely she wasn't _that_ big a part of his tale … was she?

_You underestimate your importance._ Fírnen told her. _Eragon would never have succeeded if you had not of been at his side every step of the way._

_So you're talking to me again are you?_ Arya nodded once, not taking her eyes off the woman. "Yes," she whispered, "yes I am."

"Your Majesty." The mother curtsied – or tried to with three children clinging to her.

"No!" Arya said sharply raising her hands as if defending herself from a blow. "No … no bowing. I – I'm no longer queen … I'm," she looked around at the assembled villagers, wondering what they would think of her now. "I'm just a Rider," she finished lamely. "That's all. Please … I've had enough of people bowing to me – people who no doubt have worked and struggled through lives much harder than mine."

The villagers were all muttering to themselves now, standing in a ring around her while she waited tensely for someone else to speak their minds. For the first time in a long time, she felt the prickling of fear tingle the back of her neck as she realised she was at their mercy. Her oath to not use magic meant they could quite easily overwhelm her if they wished … and they had her sword and she did not want to harm them.

While the village elders all gathered behind the tavern bar – no doubt to determine her fate, a little boy no older than about six, suddenly slipped through the knees of the crowd and darted out to stand in front of her. A young girl of about seventeen or eighteen called, "Brayan no!" but the boy ignored her as he looked up at Arya with wide eyes.

"If you're a Dragon Rider," he said slowly, "then where's your dragon?"

Arya was aware that the village was watching intently. She studied the boy before lowering herself into a crouch so she was on a level with the child. "You're the one who came running in to warn everybody aren't you?" he nodded earnestly. "You must have good eyes to spot a dragon in the distance. My dragon … well he's hiding outside the village. We didn't want to scare anybody … and he can be a bit scary at times."

The boy – Brayan – frowned. "Why didn't you want to scare anybody? The other dragon doesn't care about scaring us."

She looked at the child. "Because we want to help you, Brayan," Arya said softly, using the child's name. "But if you're afraid of us then you'll be too afraid to accept our help won't you?"

"But why would you want to help us?" he asked. Then he frowned again as a thought occurred to him. "Are you a friend of Eragon Shadeslayer? Is that why?"

Arya smiled. "Yes," she said warmly to him. "I am a very good friend of Eragon's … and Saphira's. But they're busy elsewhere and so Fírnen and I have come to help you instead. Is that alright?"

"Fírnen?" the boys said, musing over the name. "That's your dragon's name isn't it?"

Arya nodded. "He thinks of himself as King Skyflyer of the Clouds and Peaks and all the lofty reaches of the land – but don't tell him I told you that or he'll get angry with me and make me walk back to Ilirea." Brayan giggled.

The carpenter reappeared before her and pulled the boy away. Arya stood upright and met his gaze with a raised eyebrow, waiting for him to speak. "Why are you here?"

"Jok, isn't it?" he nodded slowly, "Well then Jok … rumours of a Dragon Rider terrorising the south have reached Ilirea. I happened to be there when a boy – about twelve or thirteen – arrived dying to say that his home had been destroyed by a Rider. A friend of mine," Arya wondered if she could really get away with calling Angela a friend, "came down here to confirm these rumours – for that's what they were then. With them confirmed, Fírnen and I set off about a week ago to counter them. We are here to help you … if you'll let us."

Jok the carpenter nodded tightly.

_Next time,_ Fírnen fumed, _do you think you could do all that without almost being executed by a bunch of primitives?_


	17. Fight Me Rider (part two)

**Fight Me Rider (part two)**

* * *

><p>Next morning dawned bright and chill but with the promise of warmth and heat in little more than a few hours. By the time the sun had fully risen for an hour or two, Arya judged, it would be as hot as the Hadarac Desert in winter. There hadn't been a chance to contact Ilirea last night – but then that would've required magic and she'd promised not to use any. Though the villagers no doubt wouldn't mind, Arya stuck to her word regardless of which language she'd uttered the promise in. Funnily enough that was something her mother had taught to her when she had been nothing more than a girl running through the pines … back before Islanzadí had chosen to be a queen rather than a mother that was.<p>

With the morning came Fírnen. He'd spent the night in a dell ten miles to the east of the village, the boy Brayan had spotted Nexx and Yerzogr flying in from the west and so they had decided that would be safest. He swooped low over the village to land in the square, careful not to knock over any buildings or squash any wells like Nexx had done. Arya stood in the tavern doorway watching as humans emerged from their homes to get a good look at him; if _her_ name was legend then so must his, and Fírnen certainly seemed to enjoy the attention more than she was.

"You know about healing?"

Arya blinked and found the mother from the previous evening that had made the connections as to who she was, standing at the corner of the tavern wringing her apron between her fingers.

"Yes, why?"

"My daughter … she is sick. Can you –?"

Arya sighed and looked over at her dragon. She could feel the carpenter Jok staring into her back from his place with the other elders behind the tavern counter. Arya nodded to the woman and gestured to her to lead the way.

The mother led her to the edge of the village in silence. Arya felt uncomfortable without her sword – Jok had not seen fit to return it to her yet – though she had retrieved her bow from Fírnen's saddle when he landed, so she wasn't completely unarmed. That and she did have a knife of her own hidden in her clothing for emergencies. One too many late night visits from half-drunk men of the Varden had convinced her that it was a blunt and very efficient way to encourage them to think again.

Fírnen had bet her she would have to use that same method of saying no before the day was done and she was already half agreeing with him. Being queen meant no one – no elf, human, dwarf – dared to come on to her in such a manner, but now she was no longer queen … Arya shook herself as she ducked into the cottage behind the mother and looked around.

Laying on the only bed in the corner was the child the woman had balanced on her hip the previous evening. She was sweating and her breathing ragged. Arya knelt beside the girl and took her small hand in hers, frowning. Sending out her thoughts, she searched carefully through the child's life force to find the source of the illness and withdrew. _I hate this part._

_I think everyone one does when they are put in such a position. How can you tell a mother her child is dying and there is nothing that can be done about it?_

_You can't. Not without breaking her heart._

Arya looked up at the mother, and said, "Let her rest … that is all that can be done now. No herbal remedy – no spell of magic – can save her. If she is strong, if her will to live is resilient enough then she may survive this … I am sorry; but I cannot help her."

The mother began to cry.

She backed out of the cottage and cast her mind back to her own mother. Had Islanzadí wept so when news of Arya's fate had reached Ellesméra? When she had convinced herself that Arya was dead had she wept like that?

_Of course she did … she loved you._

_Really? Then why did she always seek to control me?_

_Because she was too afraid of losing you. By controlling you, you wouldn't put yourself in situations where your life would be at risk._

_If that had been the case,_ Arya whispered as she retraced her steps to the square, _would you have even hatched for me?_

_I think, _he answered gently, _the real question is would Saphira's egg have stayed out of the Empire's hands?_

The boy Brayan was sitting on the edge of a wagon, munching on a crust of bread. He smiled brightly when he saw Arya and jumped down from his perch to pick up her sword from the floor. It was much too big and heavy for him to carry and Arya laughed a little at his insistence. "Here. Jok said I should give it back to you."

"Well thank you," Arya said, taking the weapon and wrapping the belt around her waist. The boy let out a sigh and climbed the wagon again to return to his spot. "That was a mighty sigh for one so small."

"My mother is shouting at my sister again."

"Has she done something wrong?"

Brayan shrugged. "They're always shouting," he swung his legs and laid back on the wagon to look up at the sky. "It's annoying."

"My mother and I used to always shout," Arya admitted quietly.

"Why? Didn't you love her?"

"Of course I did … I –" Arya leant against the wagon beside the boy. "I suppose we argued so much because I was so like her … people who are alike tend to argue a lot because they both think and believe they're right. But they just don't like admitting that so is the other person."

"That doesn't make sense!" Brayan complained.

"It doesn't does it?"

Brayan was silent for a long while. "Where is Eragon Shadeslayer?"

"I don't know," Arya admitted softly. "You see, he left … a long time ago now. And no one has heard from him since."

"Do you think that Urgal Rider killed him?"

"No."

"Do you know who that Urgal Rider is?"

"Yes … Fírnen and I trained them both for a while. We sent them east to find Eragon and Saphira but clearly they didn't make it."

"Did you fight with Eragon Shadeslayer?"

"I did," Arya replied, amused at the endless stream of the boy's questions.

"Did you fight with his cousin, Roran Stronghammer?"

"Not as much."

"What about Queen Nasuada?"

"A little … though she didn't do much fighting because she spent most of the time recovering from the Trial of the Long Knives."

"She was captured by Murtagh wasn't she? And tortured by the King?"

Arya sighed, "She was," she murmured softly.

"And you were by a Shade."

_I can growl until he shuts up if you want?_

_No. It's fine. I half expected this as is._

"What of it?"

Brayan shrugged again. "Being tortured by a Shade is worse than being tortured by the King."

"What makes you say that?"

"Well," the boy took a deep breath, as if he'd had this conversation before many times and had to perfect his answer. "The King was only human wasn't he? And the Shade wasn't was he?"

_Did a six year old child just get to the crux of the issue in two sentences? Whatever Nasuada endured in her few weeks as Galbatorix's prisoner … you suffered six months at the hands of a creature whose imagination that Oath-Breaker could never come close to._

_Shut up._ "You have a very sharp mind, Brayan."

The boy gave her an impish grin. "Jok says I should stop wasting my time playing Riders and help out in his carpentry more."

"But you'd rather play Riders?" Arya guessed with a smile.

He nodded earnestly then began with more endless questions. "Did you ever ride Saphira?"

Arya nodded.

"And that gold dragon?"

"Glaedr? No."

"Oh. Have you been to Doru Areaba?"

She shook her head, thinking of how she'd said to Eragon that time that she'd always wanted to see the home of the Riders. For some reason she and Fírnen had never found an excuse to take them there.

"Did you and Eragon Shadeslayer love each other?"

_Yes._

Alarm spread through her. _Shut up!_ Arya glanced sharply at Brayan. "Why do you ask?"

"Well, some stories say you did and some say you didn't. I just wanted to know which were true that's all. Because the one that says you did says that you killed a Shade in Feinster and the one that says you didn't love him says Eragon killed that Shade."

Arya was spared having to answer by Brayan's friends all running round the corner waving sticks and toy bows as they 'played Riders' with one another. Brayan jumped of the wagon and ran to join them without looking back at Arya.

The day took a long time to pass. By the time mid-afternoon loomed Arya was close to suffocating from the waiting. Though Jok the carpenter had kept her on her toes as he tried relentlessly to find some secluded spot to lure her to so he could attempt to make a move on her. Arya made a point of keeping her bow strung and in her hand at all times; if nothing else getting pinged by the sting of an elven bow would leave a very nasty bruise.

When Brayan and his friends came sprinting into the square to yell that Yerzogr and Nexx were on their way, the villagers of Leavall – apparently that was what they called themselves – scattered behind closed doors; namely the tavern, the barn and the village hall so that they would be out of the way for when Fírnen and Arya confronted their hatchlings. Those three buildings because that way homes could be knocked down without the risk of anyone getting killed.

Unless, of course, the barn or the hall or the tavern were set alight or knocked down. Arya had discarded her cloak the previous night; an old man had been in more need of it than her, and she sat with Támerlein drawn and resting on the pommel of Fírnen's saddle as they waited for the renegade Rider and his dragon to return. The low _thud_ding announced their arrival and tightening her grip on the sword's hilt, Arya patted Fírnen's neck reassuringly.

_I don't like this anymore than you do._

_We will talk to them first?_

_We will try,_ Arya murmured quietly. _But they were never fond of listening as you'll recall._

Fírnen snorted and leapt into the air, flapping his wings so as to quickly gain altitude enough to move freely in the sky above the village. He swung round to face west and balanced on an updraft as Nexx and her Rider flew towards them and the village of Leavall. A hundred feet above the village, and the same distance away from each other, the two dragons began to circle one another as they glided on out stretched wings so that their Riders could talk.

"Are you going to tell me what happened, Yerzogr?" Arya asked.

Across the open space the Urgal sneered and brandished his sword – a massive two-handed broad sword that totalled in length about two meters.

"Why are you terrorising the south?"

Again no answer.

"Who put you up to this?"

Yerzogr swung his blade around his head and roared a mighty battle cry at her as the Urgals were wont to do. Arya swore under her breath while Fírnen attempted to get through to Nexx, though his efforts were about as successful as her own.

"Yerzogr! Answer me!"

The Urgal looked at his dragon and lowered his sword. "Why should we be subjected to the likes of Kings and Queens? We are Dragon Riders and we answer to no one but ourselves! We alone have the right to govern this land as we see fit!"

_Those sound like the lies Galbatorix once spun._ Arya murmured, _but he is dead – deader than dead. I was there … I saw …_

"So you're going to destroy and overthrow Kings Orik, Orrin, Däthedr and Queen Nasuada along with the Urgal Herndall single handily are you? How noble of you. Tell me; who are you fighting for Yerzogr? The poor and downtrodden? You're hardly endeavouring them to your cause are you by telling them to run or die!" She could see Yerzogr puzzle over her mention of Däthedr as king as the two dragons continued to circle one another.

"I serve a much greater cause. You were the fool who fought for the filth and the slim of society when you stirred up your revolution against King Galbatorix! Nexx and I fight to restore this world back to its proper way." It was almost like Yerzogr had been forced to recite those words until he'd believed them to be true … but who would or could have such an influence over him?

"But the world is being restored to its proper way," Arya called out to him. "Back the way it was when our Order stood tall and proud … when peace prevailed and there was no ill will to be found anywhere!"

The Urgal Rider spat over the shoulder of his dragon and once again brandished his massive two-handed sword. Arya had never liked sparring with Yerzogr when she'd been training him; the Urgal was heavy and could put a lot of weight behind his blows whereas she wasn't. _They're going to fight us._ Fírnen whispered.

_I know._

_I don't think I could kill them though._

_No, neither do I._ However Arya decided that if it came down to the hatchlings' lives or Fírnen's then she _would_ kill them. She could feel her dragon making a similar decision and smiled as she readjusted her grip on her sword. Arya wished she'd taken time to stop by the armoury and borrow a mail shirt and shield for she had foolishly left her own back in Ellesméra thinking she wouldn't be needing it. She also wished they had some armour for Fírnen.

Nexx roared defiantly and let a jet of violet tinged flames flicker from her jaws. Arya threw her arm across her face as the wards around them both deflected the heat, but not the light. Fírnen responded in kind and Arya echoed Yerzogr's words from the day before. "Come and fight me Rider!"

Fírnen took three great beats of his wings in order to gain the advantage and manoeuvre above Nexx. However she had already began to lung towards him and so they collided with a judder that would've unseated Arya had she not strapped her legs securely into the saddle. Fírnen roared and sunk his front claws into Nexx's unprotected belly and she roared in pain as did her Rider. She retaliated by attempting to bite at his shoulder, but the hard scales, along with Arya's wards, deflected her teeth. She raked at the underside of his left wing and left a trail of jagged scratches behind. Arya could feel his agony as her dragon let lose a tongue of emerald flames rather than roaring in pain.

A purple scaly leg came into view and Arya swung at it with Támerlein, the Rider's blade slicing through whatever wards Yerzogr had placed upon his dragon. The sword embedded itself into bone and as Fírnen kicked away from Nexx so as to avoid crashing into the village, Támerlein was jerked out of Arya's hands and went spinning to the ground as Nexx shook the blade out of her leg.

Nexx darted above Fírnen as they once again regained height enough for their battle while Arya pulled her bow from the quiver and placed an arrow to the string. She pulled back as far as she could and released, the arrow slicking through the air and catching Yerzogr in the arm. He roared as the arrow went right through him and implanted itself between two of Nexx's scales in her neck. As she roared in discomfort, Fírnen snapped at her tail and – as Glaedr had once done to Thorn – he bit off the last three feet of her tail.

Hot dragon blood flowed from the wound, raining down on the village below them. Nexx howled and veered to the ground and the village. For a moment Arya thought she was going to crash and create a very large and very bloody crater where Leavall stood, but at the last minute the dragon managed to snap open her wings and alight upon the dirt track road. Even as they watched, Yerzogr dismounted and attempted to sooth his wounded dragon.

_Let me off. Try and keep her out of the air if you can._

_You're going to jump? From this height?_

Arya had already unstrapped her legs and got a firm hold of her bow. She swung her leg over the front of the saddle and threw herself into the air; muttering firmly and quickly under her breath, Arya released the spell moments before she was due to smash into the roof of the tavern. She felt her descent slow until she came to an absolute stop about three feet from the roof. Releasing the magic, she flopped onto the slate roof – no doubt giving the villagers hiding inside the fright of their lives – and scrambled to her feet.

_Támerlein …_ she thought desperately, searching for a glimpse of her blade.

_Forget your sword for a moment – if you can pull it off we can capture the hatchlings here and now; while he's distracted and trying to heal Nexx._

Arya scampered across the tavern roof and dropped to the floor, rolling and jumping lightly to her feet. Someone opened a door to the village hall and Arya hissed to them, "Get back inside!" before nocking another arrow and speeding to the outskirts where Fírnen was busy keeping Nexx firmly on the ground.

Skidding to a halt, Arya drew her bow tight, holding the string close to her cheek and the arrow trained on Yerzogr's heart. From such a short distance, her arrow would no doubt pierce his armour and kill him.

Yerzogr whirled around and raised his massive sword. "This is enough Yerzogr. Surrender and come quietly and I will aid your efforts to heal Nexx." Instead of agreeing to her terms, the Urgal raised his free hand and uttered deeply in the ancient language. Arya just had enough time to recognise what the spell was intending to do as a burst of fiery light came from his palm. It collided with the forge and the building exploded, sending fragments of wood and metal into the air to rain down upon the village; the blast sent her flying backwards into the butcher's shop.

Arya's head collided solidly with the counter.


	18. Fight Me Rider (part three)

**Fight Me Rider (part three)**

* * *

><p><em>G<em>_et up! Run! He's coming for you!_ Arya scrabbled to her feet, her fingers closing round the string of her bow as she staggered upright, her head spinning and pounding. She sagged against the solid oak counter and winced as she prodded a rather splendid bruise on the back of her head, taking her fingers away she breathed a sigh of relief that there was no blood. _Move!_ Fírnen hissed angrily in her mind.

The heavy footfalls of Yerzogr pacing towards her echoed the sound of her heart hammering in her chest, more than anything, bringing her back to reality. Arya threw her gaze around the room and darted for the back door as Yerzogr shouldered aside the collapsed front wall of the building; she just managed to slip out of it as he spotted her. With a fierce yell he gave chase.

_If I had my sword_, Arya thought to herself,_ I would stand and fight. Not keep running away like a coward._

She was vaguely aware of Fírnen's struggle with Nexx on the outskirts of the village. Several houses had been flattened and several more were busy burning merrily in dragon fire. Their roars and snarls raised the hairs on the back of her neck; if she wasn't busy fleeing from Yerzogr then their ferocity of the fight would have her at a standstill frozen with fear.

It was clear that, in the time between saying farewell to the hatchlings and this unwarranted meeting with them, that Yerzogr and Nexx had received more tuition and instruction. Nexx's attacks on Fírnen were confident and strategic rather than instinctual as his were and Arya worried desperately for him; she feared he might not survive for long if he wasn't able to gain the advantage of the air. After all, he had learnt the basics of aerobatics from Saphira and Glaedr himself had said that Eragon's dragon had been a natural.

She ducked as Yerzogr made to swipe at her neck with his broadsword, and rolled to the side, darting and skipping lightly in quick direction changes. She was lighter and nimbler than he was and that was her only advantage; she had to use it and tire him out or at least distract him long enough for her to find a suitable weapon to confront him with. A wooden bow would hardly defend her from such a heavy sword, no matter how many wards and enchantment she placed on it.

"Stand and fight!" Yerzogr yelled as Arya slipped down between the backs of two houses and pulled herself up onto the roof. At least up here she could see what was going on in the next street … and maybe catch a glimpse of her sword. The Urgal swiped his hand up and grabbed hold of her foot, pulling her down; she was forced to let go of her bow as she threw out her hands to stop her falling to his feet. Arya seized hold of the beams that supported the roof and held herself up as she kicked her way free of Yerzogr's grip. The Urgal Rider's head smashed into the wall of the next house and his horns got wedged in the wood.

By the time he'd freed himself, Arya was three houses away and scampering towards the centre of the village. Arya dropped to the ground and spun round, expecting Yerzogr to come haring out of one of the streets leading to the square. The tavern door opened and Jok the carpenter emerged from safety into the open.

"Has the danger gone?" he demanded.

"Get back inside!" Arya yelled at him as Fírnen threw Nexx into the bakery, reducing the building and most of the village to rumble. "No wait! Give me your spear first!" she yanked the weapon from the carpenter and whirled around in time to meet the blow from Yerzogr. The solid wood held out against the massive sword, though Arya knew that it wouldn't last for long.

On sudden inspiration, she sent out her mind and found the boy, Brayan's mind. After calming him down she stressed the importance of not being seen and that he didn't have to do as she asked if he was too afraid. Eager to impress, Brayan agreed and Arya returned her attention to her battle with Yerzogr. She ducked and jumped sideways, dancing out of reach of his long blade while nicking him with the sharpened end of the spear.

Wryly she wondered how Eragon had managed to kill the Raz'ac with nothing but a stick.

Nexx staggered to her feet, blood still streaming from her mangled tail, and let out an indignant roar of frustration. Purple tinged flames poured from her mouth setting near enough half of Leavall on fire. Then there came a vast cry of alarm and fear as the barn caught alight. The tavern doors opened as did the Village Hall doors and several men all ran out to try and free those trapped inside. Yerzogr took advantage of Arya's distraction and swatted her in the stomach with the flat of his blade. Winded she fell to the floor.

Screams and mayhem echoed through the smoke and as Arya staggered to upright, Fírnen's tail caught her in the back of her knees and she went flying through the air and crashed into the rebuilt stone wall of the well. Arya gasped and clutched her side; the spikes on Fírnen's tail had cut through her shirt and left a long and shallow – but painful – gash along her ribs.

_Sorry!_ He moaned.

_I'll live – don't worry about it; worry about yourself!_ For indeed she could feel the many and numerous wounds that he'd sustained during his struggle with Nexx. Somehow he had got a couple of broken ribs along with several large gashes along his back and legs along with a rather large tear in his right wing. Nexx fared no better. In addition to the mangled bitten off tail and the gouge in her leg that had cost Arya her sword, she had a row of nasty little cuts from Fírnen's teeth on her snout and a large incision upon her wing that Fírnen kept targeting and making worse.

Coughing, Arya staggered – how many times had she staggered in this fight? – to her feet and searched through the smoke for the screams. Jok's spear lay broken in two on the ground; she tripped over it and landed sprawled on the packed dirt floor of the village square. It occurred to her then that she and Fírnen were severely outmatched in this battle; they just simply didn't know how to fight against another Dragon Rider.

_Sword,_ she thought. _I … need my … sword._

_I've found it!_ Brayan cried in delight. Arya focused upon the boy's mind and breathed a sigh of relief; at least it hadn't fallen into the surrounding countryside. _I'll bring it to you!_

_No! It's too dangerous here!_

But the boy wasn't listening and Arya sensed him dragging the sword back towards the centre of the village where Yerzogr was murdering everyone in sight. Fírnen snarled and snapped at Nexx as she tried to swipe aside a row of villagers who were trying to flee. Groaning, Arya lurched to her feet and darted through the smoke, picking up the sharpened end of Jok's spear and blocking Yerzogr's blow as he made to decapitate the town healer. The wooden shaft buckled and snapped and the massive sword bit into the woman's leg as she tried to scramble out of the way. Arya ducked, drove her shoulder towards the Urgal's stomach, knocking him to the floor. She didn't even bother trying to wrestle him for his sword.

Jumping over him, Arya darted through the crowd even as Yerzogr lurched to his feet and gave chase; clearing a path through the crowd with his sword. _I hope you have a plan!_

_I always have a plan … well – _she amended – _half a plan at least._

_Duck!_ She ducked as Fírnen's tail sailed over her head and knocked Yerzogr to the ground again.

Arya spun round the corner of the tavern, past the burning barn, and down a side street as the Urgal's heavy footfalls pounded behind her, gaining ground on her with every step. Where was the boy? Darting swiftly into another alley and then to a different side street, she doubled back and nearly ran right into Brayan.

"Here!" he huffed.

Arya grabbed Támerlein and spun around, pushing Brayan firmly behind her, and catching the blow from Yerzogr's sword. The tide of the skirmish turned for now Arya once again wielded her blade and confidence rushed through her; she had been practicing sword craft for over a century. This Urgal had never even touched a sword until his apprenticeship to her. She had taught him near enough everything that he knew …

_Go and hide!_ She hissed at the boy. _Away from the village – go!_

_But …_

_I said to go!_ Reluctantly the boy turned and ran, slipping between two un-burning houses and disappeared. Yerzogr's eyes narrowed as he followed Brayan's retreat.

Arya swung Támerlein, her blows light and nimble, darting in and out of the reach of Yerzogr's massive two-handed sword.

'_Get in close,'_ she heard Brom mutter darkly in the back of her mind, '_when you have the shorter blade; get in close.'_ For a moment she was her adolescent self, standing opposite Brom in the flat expanse of grass outside Oromis's hut, holding a battered branch from a tree like a sword while the old man was like wise armed with a longer stick.

Arya spun under her next blow, twisting as she took two steps forwards and slipped inside the Urgal's defences; with his big heavy sword he found it difficult to counter her attacks and if it weren't for his armour he'd already be dead by now. Grunting as she swatted him on his injured arm, Yerzogr cast aside his sword, lowered his chin, and made to charge her. Arya swiftly backed away and would have been impaled upon Yerzogr's horns if Fírnen hadn't of yanked her off the ground and into the air.

With difficulty, she clambered up his scaly leg and settled into the saddle even as Yerzogr raced towards Nexx and jumped onto her back. It took three attempts for the violet dragon to gain the air and it was very clear that she was in no fit state to fight Fírnen for any longer. Arya tightened her grip on Támerlein and yelled tauntingly across to Yerzogr, "Come and fight me Rider!"

Nexx flapped wildly to gain altitude but instead of attacking Fírnen, she instead angled west and began to flee. Roaring his victory, Fírnen chased after her, though he did hang back enough to let her get away because he himself wasn't really in any shape to continue their battle. They chased the renegade Dragon Rider for a few miles before turning back to Leavall; they really ought to help the villagers' efforts to quench the flames and tend to the injured.

_If any survived that is._

However, when they landed in the village square, Jok and his rather sooty comrades all came running towards them with pitchforks and knives. Arya surpassed her sigh. "Get away! You've done nothing but destroy our home!"

"We've just saved your lives!" Arya yelled indignantly, "and this is how you thank us!"

Jok the carpenter looked even wilder and dangerous in the haze of smoke and fire. "Get away!" he yelled. "We would've been let alone if you hadn't turned up!"

_That's not true! You were already in danger before we arrived!_ For once Fírnen spoke directly to the villagers and they all cowered away when they realised he was just as – or maybe more so in some cases – intelligent as they were.

"Half our village is destroyed … the other half lies in ruins!" Jok continued. "Not to mention all those that are dead!" he picked up the broken shards of his spear and hurtled them at the dragon and his Rider. "Get away before we drive you away!"

_Let's go,_ Arya murmured softly. Fírnen heaved himself wearily into the sky and took flight, leaving the villagers of Leavall to clear up the havoc that they'd helped wreck. It demoralised her that the people of Leavall were so angry and thankless towards them … the old stories of times long gone never mentioned that this was the price the Riders had to pay for helping and protecting everyone and anyone from harm. It almost made Arya want to give up and say never again. But she wouldn't because she knew they were only afraid of what they didn't understand.

_Maybe we should've stayed in Ellesméra …_ Fírnen murmured. _At least there we didn't get thrown out of a village after we finished helping them out._

_You don't mean that._

_No,_ he agreed. _If this is the price we pay for freedom then so be it. I shall not surrender up my freedom just because my help and my actions go un-thanked and unwelcome._

_Nor will I … _They spent that night in a lowly glade five miles north of the village. Arya painstakingly did her best to heal the great many wounds that her dragon had sustained in his battle before then tending to her own, slightly lesser, injuries. _Are you sure that's everything?_

_I am sure._ He said after a moment's hesitation. _I'm sorry …_ Fírnen added as Arya removed her shit to get a better look at the cut she'd received from Fírnen's tail.

"It's nothing to worry about," she said, speaking aloud. Inspecting the wound she first uttered the spell to keep away infection and then one to heal the cut completely. Her skin crawled and tingled as the magic knitted her flesh back together seamlessly.

"That looks weird." Arya spun round, Támerlein already in her hand only to find the boy, Brayan, sitting on a rock watching them innocently. For a number of reasons, Arya found a faint flush creep over her cheeks at being caught by the boy without her shirt on. At least she did have the supportive linen wrap bound around her upper chest so she wasn't _entirely_ shirtless but still … it left little to the imagination.

_He's just a boy._ Fírnen snorted. _Stop being such a prude._

_I'm a prude! You're the one who growls whenever some male looks at me too long or touches my hand by mistake._

"What are you doing here Brayan?"

He looked a bit guilty and shuffled off his rock shyly, looking at the ground and digging the tip of his boot into the mud. "You didn't say goodbye."

_Urgh … can't you control those blasted emotions?_

_They're called hormones … and no. Not really._ Arya looked at Brayan and shook her head, smiling tolerably. "Jok didn't really give us a chance to," she explained.

"Why?"

_Here we go again …_ Fírnen sighed. _Unless he brings up you loving Eragon again – I might actually point out you never did answer that question of his._

_Fírnen._

_Yes?_

_Shut up._

He grumbled and settled down on the hard packed ground to sleep while Arya turned to the boy. "Because a lot of things happened that he didn't understand … and he was scared so he sent us away."

"But … but you saved us!"

Arya looked down at her hands and sighed, "Yes … but we also did help destroy most of your village; and a lot of people died in that fire. And I couldn't stop Yerzogr from killing them either."

Brayan slumped to the ground and watched as Arya inspected the bruise on her stomach; a nasty blotch dark bruise was forming in a roughly rectangular shape and shallow cuts on the long edges were bleeding painfully. She winced as she gently prodded it before breathing a sigh of relief that no internal organs were damaged. While Arya knew how to diagnose illnesses and suggest herbal remedies and spells, and while she could heal broken bones and close up cuts and gashes and remove scars … when it came to fixing damage internally she was clueless.

"How'd you get that?" Brayan asked, pointing.

Arya looked down at her stomach. "Yerzogr hit me with the flat of his blade. I was lucky I suppose; he could've won there and then if he'd just altered the angle of his sword." Murmuring simply, "waíse heil," she healed away the bruise and the cuts. She picked up her shirt; it smelled strongly of smoke and blood but there wasn't much she could do about that and she was far too tired to invent a spell to get rid of the stench. Instead she rummaged through her pack – which she hadn't gotten round to removing from the saddle, and pulled out a fresh one, tossing the ruined shirt into the fire as a rustling in the bushes alerted all three of them to danger.

Arya grabbed her sword as Fírnen opened one eye and Brayan scrambled backwards towards Arya and away from the intruder.

"Murtagh!"

He held up his hands, "Yeah … I thought it was you." He said. Murtagh glanced at Fírnen and nodded knowingly. "I should've guessed that egg would hatch for you."

"What are you doing here?" Arya didn't lower her sword; she hadn't seen Eragon's half-brother since that day in Ilirea when they'd toppled the Empire for good.

"I was watching – Thorn and I were watching …"

"And you didn't think to help?"

Murtagh shrugged. "Would you have let me? Besides … you looked like you were doing fine all by yourself."

Brayan spoke then, and his word – more than Murtagh's appearance – shocked Arya most. "Father," he said.

_What did he say?_

Murtagh looked down at the boy and nodded. "You're mother's dead, Brayan." He said simply and without much concern for what effect that statement would have on the child. "You're going to come away with me now."

Brayan had been silent for the duration of his father's speech but Arya watched as he burst into tears. Instinct had her moving towards the boy to comfort him, however Murtagh was closer and had already lifted him up into his arms. "Come along son," he said, already turning back the way he came.

Murtagh stopped at the edge of the clearing and said, "Oh, and Arya?"

"What?"

"Put some clothes on woman."

* * *

><p>AN : _my intention was for this to be one chapter - but as I was writing it, it kinda got too long for one single chapter so I split it into three parts. I figured it'd be easier to manage in bite sized chunks than one massive 9000 word + long chapter_


	19. Back From The East

**Back from the East**

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><p>Ilirea was in sight. The sun fading behind them and the moon rising before them, but Ilirea was in sight and that was all that mattered. Fírnen had flown as fast and as far as he could since leaving Leavall, but two nights ago he'd had to stop and rest for the battle with Nexx, though not overly taxing since it hadn't lasted that long, had tired him out. Arya had stayed awake that night, worrying over him between fretting over how and why her hatchlings had turned renegade.<p>

But Ilirea was in sight and that meant that help was also in sight. _No doubt they'll blame Eragon and Saphira for it all …_ she shook her head.

_Then we must find a way to prove that they're not to blame._

_How?_

Fírnen was silent for a moment. _You could try and contact him through those mirrors … _he trailed off then snorted indignantly before altering his course, not to the citadel, but to the South Gate.

_What is it?_

_Look, _was all he told her. She looked over his shoulder and felt her heart skip several beats. Disbelief flood through her as she tried to convince herself that she was seeing things … but she wasn't.

_Oh I'm going to kill him!_ Arya fumed; anger and resentment and a hoard of other emotions came boiling to the surface, along with ones she wasn't quite sure what they were doing there. Hurt and betrayal and also joy and relief … but more hurt than relief and more joy than betrayal … _I am going to kill him!_ Fírnen knew perfectly well that she didn't mean it. That it was just the anger and the negative emotions that Eragon's presence at the gate sparked rather than all the positive ones – such as the joy and the relief.

As Fírnen reached the gate, Eragon jumped lightly onto Saphira's back and she sprang into the sky to join them in flight. While Arya was more furious with Eragon than anything right then, Fírnen was nothing but overjoyed at the return of his mate and the two dragons spent a good ten minutes soaring together over the city as their Riders sat back and enjoyed the flight. When she glanced over at him, she saw an amused and wry grin on Eragon's face and Arya realised that her annoyance and her resentment was probably showing on _her_ face. How dared he just turn up like this out of the blue?

Finally the two dragons landed in the courtyard before the great stone steps and allowed their two Riders to dismount. _Leave your sword here will you?_ Fírnen asked.

_Why?_

_I don't want you to accidently murder him._

Arya ignored him and turned away to find Eragon standing patiently at the bottom of the steps. Glancing up, Arya swore she spotted faces in the windows above the door; of course, Nasuada and Katrina were going to make sure her first meeting with Eragon was a private affair … and they were naturally going to spy on that meeting. For a number of reasons that just added to Arya's annoyance and unfortunately – or perhaps not so – Eragon was the only person in the near vicinity that she could vent that frustration out on.

Saphira snaked her head into her path and Arya halted in her tracks; wearily she reached out a hand and laid it on the legendary dragon's snout. She snorted lightly and engulfed the elf's mind in her own in what was the equivalent of a mental hug. Arya rested her brow against Saphira's nose and let the dragon in. Saphira at once understood the confusion of Arya's emotions at their return and also understood, in an instant, why they were so negative. Perhaps it was because Saphira was female and Fírnen wasn't …

_Don't hurt him … too much._ Arya laughed slightly at her words and impulsively kissed the dragon's snout as she often did with Fírnen. She got a flow of envy from Fírnen at the obvious friendship between Arya and Saphira … but then, Arya had known Eragon's dragon for longer. She stepped back and then turned her attention to Saphira's Rider. He had been standing at the bottom of the stone steps watching the interaction.

Arya marched up to him and stopped, a foot away, and placed her hands on her hips. "You're late," she told him. Then she slapped him. Hard. He reeled, more from the shock of it than the impact of the blow. She was livid. "That's for everything you never told me!" Then she slapped him again; "And that's for leaving in the first place!"

Eragon rubbed his cheek gingerly and winced as his lip split and bled. "Fair enough," he agreed, obviously eager to avoid any further public humiliation – Arya knew perfectly well that Eragon had _let_ her hit him like that. "Shall we ... erm … go inside?"

Arya nodded tersely and shouldered past him as she marched up the stone steps to the citadel. Eragon trailed half step behind her as the two dragons followed them through the halls. _Where are we going?_ Saphira asked.

_I don't know. _Fírnen replied.

Arya led the way to the dining hall above the entrance for it was the room the windows overlooking the courtyard belonged to. And also where all her friends were no doubt waiting and laughing at the spectacle they'd just witnessed … In truth, she was uncertain as to why she'd hit him; she hadn't realised how angry she was with him for abandoning her – Alagaësia – so lightly all those years ago now. _He'd better have a good explanation for all this!_ Arya fumed.

_We do._ Saphira said gently. _Though Nasuada and the others are as impatient as you to hear it._

_You mean you haven't told them?_ Fírnen asked.

_Would you like to tell someone something before telling Arya? _Both dragons chuckled and Arya continued marching through the citadel towards the dining hall. Though she could feel Eragon's mind through Saphira's he made no move to join in the conversation and that, more than anything, irritated her. Arya stopped dead and wheeled around to face him.

"What?" he asked.

"You. What do you think you're doing?"

He looked as though he hadn't expected her to be so angry with him. "Helping."

"Helping?" She repeated. "_Helping?_" If he wanted to help then he should never have left in the first place!

Eragon nodded. "Yes. We're helping."

Arya resisted the urge to slap him again.

_Ah. So that is your main issue with him and why you never like speaking about him or your feelings for him,_ Fírnen mused. _Because he left you._

_What feelings?_ Arya snapped as she continued walking to the hall. _I feel nothing for him!_

_Liar._

_Shove off!_

In a quiet voice, just for Arya alone, Saphira said softly, _he's missed you too._ Arya faltered for a moment at the dragon's quiet words for she hadn't realised until Saphira had said it, that missing Eragon was, in fact, the root of her problem.

"Arya," Eragon called from behind as they reached the corridor to the dining hall. "Arya wait … there's something I need –"

She ignored him as she shouldered aside the doors to the dining hall and burst inside only to come to a complete standstill as her world suddenly tipped alarmingly and spun upside down. Words utterly failed her as the impossible stood before her; this couldn't be … he was dead. _Dead._ Arya opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out as she reeled from the shock and alarm of what it was she now beheld and all that it meant.

"– to tell you."

"Ah …" Oromis said, getting to his feet as the two Riders and their dragons entered the hall. "We have a little problem I see."

"No." Arya told him, "You are dead."

Eragon sidled up to her, though careful to remain out of reach of another slap. "Listen; this is part of why I am here." Arya turned to him slowly and he backed up a step. A small twinge of guilt spread up inside her as she saw the red mark from her palm flaring to life on his cheek. Small twinge. She suppressed it quickly enough and hid her emotions behind a blank mask like she'd watched her mother do since the day her father died.

Arya pointed a finger at Oromis. "He's dead. _You_ watched him die!"

"Well technically …" Eragon began.

"Don't even go there!" she yelled at him.

He shook his head. "Are you even going to let me explain?" he demanded.

"No. I don't want your excuses. I don't care!"

Eragon swore violently. "You may not care but you _will_ listen! Why are you so bloody _stubborn_?"

Arya turned away from him, "I have nothing to say to you."

"Oh? So you slapped me because of everything I haven't told you, but now I'm trying to tell you some of those things, you don't want to listen!" Eragon swore again behind her. "Make your mind up!"

She wheeled around. "Well maybe if _you_ hadn't of left in the first place then my hatchlings wouldn't have wondered from the path!"

"You're the one who chose to stay behind and be the pampered queen of the elves rather than a Dragon Rider!" He yelled back at her. "I had to leave. I had to protect the future of our Order. You know that! _You're_ the one who failed them, not me!"

Arya slapped him sharply round the face for third time that day and he staggered to the side, his hand going immediately to his cheek. A low snickering from those gathered in the room reached her ears. This was too much … first the hatchlings turning renegade and now this? Him … no. "You have some nerve! Showing up here like this; expecting a warm welcome with open arms and no demands for why you felt the need to abandon us all in the first place!"

Eragon stood there, his mouth open slightly, staring at her in perplexity. Did he really not expect her to be angry with him? Idiot. Finally he managed a feeble; "Well I'm here now aren't I?"

It wouldn't be wise, Arya reflected, to draw her sword and fight him – if anything her experience in Leavall had taught her that she and Fírnen really _didn't _know how to fight a dragon and Rider – and also, while she was livid with Eragon, she had no quarrel with Saphira. Instead she retreated deep within herself and settled for giving him a stony silence; hiding behind a blank mask as she struggled to wrestle with the dilemma she now faced.

He was spluttering some kind of excuse but she wasn't really listening because he was right; she knew perfectly well why it was he'd had to go. Arya wasn't so much angry with him as she was with herself for not going with him in the first place … maybe all this – all that had happened to Yerzogr and Nexx – could've been avoided if she had left with him and Saphira. Maybe her duties as the queen had distracted her and prevented her from giving the hatchlings her full and undivided attention as she'd tutored them …

_Stop this. You did your best for them and you know that._

Eragon had disappeared without a trace for sixteen years and on principle, Arya had the rights to be angry with him for that – but part of her, and not a small part either, just wanted to throw her arms around him and rejoice that he really was back. She quashed that desire for she wasn't entirely sure why it was there and what, exactly, it meant; that and hugging Eragon like she wanted to would give Nasuada and Katrina a field day and licence for them to mock her and tease her for the rest of her existence.

However. Now he _was _back, the difficult challenge now faced her of figuring out what, exactly, he meant to her; did she love him? Was that why his return had sparked such a contrast of emotions and feelings in her? Just as she had with the decision to follow her mother or not, Arya had been running from the problem Eragon posed to her only now – now she had to turn and face those feelings and work out, once and for all, what they were and what they meant. Even if Eragon was only here for a short visit, Arya didn't want him to leave without her first having reached the bottom of why he was so important to her.

"I will explain everything to you," Eragon was saying hurriedly, "I give you my word, but you have to promise you'll listen! These problems you have faced and are facing; they are far bigger than you can hope to realise."

Arya looked him in the eye for a long time; he held her gaze determinedly and Arya was impressed that he did not back down like she remembered him doing so before. Clearly he had changed and grown in the sixteen years they had been separated … she just hoped he hadn't changed too much and ceased being the friend she'd come to rely upon so greatly. It wasn't that she didn't want to know why he'd come back, but more she wasn't ready to listen to him yet; listening to him would mean she was no longer angry at him for dropping everything and running east.

_It's late,_ a voice reached out to those in the room. _Eragon and Arya, make your peace with one another quickly and if that is not to be then tell us so that we can lock you in this chamber until the pair of you see sense._

"Well now," Oromis said out loud, "that's a bit harsh don't you think?"

Eragon was watching Oromis intently, and also appeared to be observing the flare and emotions of Glaedr's eldunarí – wherever it was – for he seemed tense and as though waiting for something to happen. Her annoyance and anger at Eragon temporarily forgotten, Arya threw Eragon a quizzical look. He didn't respond to her unspoken question.

"Understandable I suppose," Oromis said. "I mean, it was entirely selfish of me wasn't it? Dying like that …" he trailed off and after a moment a small smile flickered the old elf's face and Eragon breathed an audible sigh of relief.

_What just happened?_ Arya wondered. Saphira, who was in conversation – well the dragon equivalent – with Fírnen turned her head towards her and tilted it to the side as she contemplated Arya for a moment or two.

_Master Glaedr just forgave Oromis … have you calmed your anger down enough now to listen to us? I will sit out in the corridor and stop the pair of you leaving otherwise. What we have to say is far too important to have you remain angry at Eragon over something that was beyond either your control or his._

_He could've stayed._

_And you could've left._ Saphira countered. _This is petty and childish – he's been spending the past three weeks fretting that you've changed beyond all recognition and no longer remain his closest and most trusted friend. What we have come back to face …_ the dragon huffed and shifted to a more comfortable spot a few inches to the right. _He can't do it without you at his side._

The dragon's words echoed ones Fírnen had said to her before in the village; that Eragon would not have succeeded if she hadn't been by his side the whole way. Perhaps they were both right … but it was, as Saphira pointed out, childish to deny him the friendship they had been forced to abandon all those years ago when they were facing dark times that would need her and Eragon to be as they once had been to each other; friends.

Sighing, Arya surrendered slightly, "I will listen now."

* * *

><p>AN : _so here it is: the long awaited reunion. I honestly did not expect it to take me 19 chapters to get the pair of them together again in the same scene ... but hey ho here we gooooooo_


	20. Enlightenment

**Enlightenment**

* * *

><p>Though it was late; none the less they all reconvened in the council chamber for the long awaited explanation from Eragon and Oromis. Much to their disgust, the children had all been put to bed and therefore had also decided to kick up a fuss so it was nearing midnight before all the relevant seats around the oval table had been filled. Saphira and Fírnen had absented themselves to go and 'reacquaint' themselves with one another – much to Eragon and Arya's annoyance. Oromis watched the pair intently as the chatter in the room died out; they were sitting opposite one another and not speaking a word to anyone; Eragon was staring right at Arya with hard eyes while Arya was doing her uttermost to avoid his gaze.<p>

He chuckled to himself; their petty game would last until one of them gained enough courage to address the issues between them. Whatever they were … _it's not hard to see why she's his istalrí, _Oromis mused.

_Again – like I keep telling you – we don't know that for certain. Not yet anyways._ Oromis reluctantly agreed and thought on that for a moment. _No._ Glaedr said at once.

_But I have not even suggested the proposal to you yet_, Oromis protested.

_Why can't you leave them to sort their problems out by themselves? Or has death sparked up some twisted need to get involved in everything in you?_

_I was merely wondering if we should test my theory that's all …_

Glaedr gave the impression of snorting indignantly. _Let them alone. If you go blundering in then you'll no doubt drive them further apart._

At that moment Queen Nasuada got regally to her feet – though she'd never match the ease and grace with which Islanzadí or Evander had been able to do so – and cleared her throat to gain everyone's attention. "Now that we are all here …" she cast a sideways glance at Eragon and Arya before failing to hide her mirth, and continued. "I suppose, _Lord_ Rider, you will tell us exactly why it is you have seen fit to return?"

Arya looked sharply up at that and threw a look towards Eragon, who had gotten wearily to his feet even as Nasuada sat. "I'd explain," he began, "but in truth I don't really understand it much myself. If you want a full and consistent explanation then beseech my master for one."

Oromis narrowed his eyes at Brom's son and sat there in silence while all eyes turned to him as Eragon Shadeslayer sat back down. "I'd of thought news of from the south would be more pressing?" He said.

Arya groaned. "But not as urgent as you two kept telling me your news was!" Islanzadí's daughter took on a tone of irritability as she added, "Besides. I promised to listen but don't expect me to wait forever."

"Riders," Oromis heard Däthedr mutter under his breath, "always seeking to fend off the task of explanations to someone else." The elves around him chuckled at his words an drew curious looks from the humans and the dwarves present.

_Just tell them and be done with it,_ Glaedr sighed. _You're not nearly stubborn enough to contend with Eragon or Arya so speak and get it over with._

Grumbling under his breath, Oromis rose to his feet and cleared his throat. "Before I begin," a small smirk appeared on Eragon's face and as Oromis watched, the young Rider leant back in his seat and proceeded to put his feet up on the table. "Are you comfortable boy?" Oromis shot at Eragon.

"Moderately so, ebrithil," he replied.

Out of the corner of his eye, Oromis spotted Arya hiding her smirk behind her hand as she pretended to itch her nose. "And you?" he asked her.

Arya blinked. "Not really. These chairs of yours, Nasuada, hardly provide much comfort." Nasuada seemed loath to get herself involved as Eragon quite deliberately shifted on his chair and scrapped the legs against the stone floor.

"I concur," he said suddenly, "I am most certainly _not_ comfortable ebrithil."

Oromis was about to explode at the pair of them when it suddenly occurred to him that that was just what they wanted. Instead he took a deep breath, cursing their parents for raising children just as troublesome as they had been and closed his eyes. Oromis counted to ten and ignored the childish antics between Arya and Eragon.

"Before I begin," he started again, "I want each and every one of you to swear – in the ancient language – that not a word of what is spoken leaves these walls." Nearly everyone jumped up to protest and Oromis banged his goblet – the kitchens had provided a table along the wall opposite the stain-glass windows piled high with food and drink – sharply on the oval table to gain their attention. "If you do not wish to swear yourself to silence then so be it. I have nothing to say." He proceeded to sit.

"Why?" King Orrin demanded, standing and knocking his plate of food to the floor.

"Precaution." Eragon grunted. "Our enemy could have spies here."

"What enemy?" Arya asked.

Eragon glanced at her. "Murtagh."

Oromis watched as a frown creased Arya's face before it then went suddenly pale. "You are sure?" she asked.

It was Eragon's turn to frown. "Yes. Why?"

Arya glanced round at the hall and shook her head; "I saw him after the skirmish with Yerzogr at Leavall. He took the boy away with him."

"What boy?"

"His son … a child who lived in the village and helped me; Brayan was his name."

"Murtagh has a son?"

Arya rolled her eyes. "That's what I just said."

Interesting though that revelation was, Oromis was keen to get oaths of silence from the council before the conversation proceeded any further. Interrupting Eragon before he could speak, he said; "If you do not wish to have yourself bound by oath then leave; I will not speak before those who could betray us."

After a long moment, Däthedr got to his feet and swore himself silent. One by one so did the other monarchs; their advisors, however, got to their feet and marched out of the chamber in disgust, slamming the door loudly behind them. In the end, the four monarchs and Nar Garzhvog remained with Roran Stronghammer, Blödhgarm – well he was sort of supposed to go wherever Eragon went so naturally had to remain – and the other elves that had arrived from Ceris, along with Jörmundur, Baldor, Lord Fiolr and a couple of dwarves who'd accompanied Orik.

In total only twenty – including himself, Eragon and Arya – remained in the chamber when near enough a hundred or so had crowded inside in the first place.

"Well," Oromis said, "That got rid of everyone we didn't need didn't it?"

A grin appeared on Eragon's face. "You did that just to reduce the number of people you had to tell didn't you?"

"Of course. But I still would like your word to keep this to yourselves," Oromis added, looking round at them all. Everyone murmured their assent and took chairs closer to where the three Riders sat at the far end of the table. "Well now. Where to begin?"

_Why don't you let Arya go first? That way everyone will be enlightened at the same time._ Glaedr suggested.

Oromis nodded and turned to her, "Arya Dröttningu …"

She stirred. "I am no longer dröttningu, Oromis." She said softly. "I have no right to call myself the Princess of Ellesméra. Not when I gave up the Throne and all it entails."

"You will always be Arya Dröttningu," he told her gently. "For you will always be the daughter of King Evander and Queen Islanzadí."

Arya smiled slightly at his words and shook her head. "Enough; you wish to know what happened in the south? Very well I shall tell you …"

Oromis listened as Arya recounted the events that had transpired during her time investigating the rumours surrounding a Dragon Rider terrorising the south. When it came to the battle with Yerzogr, Arya gave a rough overview and outline of what had transpired rather than a blow-by-blow account of the incident. She ended her tale with the brief encounter with Murtagh and the revelation that Morzan's spawn had a son before falling silent.

"Now." She said in a tone of command that was inevitably going to come out since she'd been brought up to use such authority, "Tell me why my hatchlings have turned astray."

Eragon closed his eyes and let out a sigh. When he spoke – though there were twenty people in the room listening – he spoke only to Arya for it was she that deserved all the explanations and reasons for it was she that had been denied the truths Eragon was now speaking. "They never got to me," he said softly, "And we got no word from you … I started to wonder if things were wrong or if it was just simply that the eggs refused to hatch; the eggs I took with me didn't for whatever reasons so I put it down to the dragons being picky."

Eragon lifted his gaze and set his feet on the floor. "But then I had a dream."

Orrin snorted into his goblet and received a very nasty look from Arya. It was Oromis's turn to hide his smile at her obvious annoyance at the interruption; as he recalled, she'd never liked it when storied had been interrupted as a child.

"I dreamt of Du Wydra Nángorörh." He proceeded to recount the dream and all that had happed since. "I was talking with Roran and Orik earlier this evening," he finished, "when Saphira and I spotted you and Fírnen flying in the distance towards us … as for the rest, well;" he gave Arya a somewhat impish grin, "You know as well as I what happened next."

Eragon's cheek was still red from where Arya had slapped him, Oromis noticed absently. "The Blasted Fate," Arya murmured then, translating the phrase into a language the humans, dwarves and Urgal would understand, "but those were just stories told to frighten children into obedience." She protested, turning towards him.

"What stories?" Nar Garzhvog rumbled deeply.

Oromis flickered his gaze to the Kull. "I suppose I ought to go into some detail hadn't I? Though why my race now only think of such events as 'stories' when they were once truth is, I am sorry to say, a tale that belongs only to the Riders." He got several nods and nodded himself, pondering what to say and how to begin as he sat with his hands pressed against one another as if he were in prayer.

"Du Wydra Nangororh is a set of spells – _forbidden spells_ – that, if uttered correctly, tear open the fabric of reality and allow the caster to bring back the dead." There was a resounding and profound silence at the end of that sentence and Oromis suspected that not a few of the humans and dwarves present were expecting him to turn round and say 'only joking, they're spells that make blue grass grow on trees'.

Garzhvog shifted in his seat. "We too, have stories about such spells," he said. "But they are merely stories, are they not? Tales to will away a winter or two."

"If they are merely stories," Oromis said quietly, "then how is it I am speaking with you now? You heard Eragon's account; do you doubt the validity of his word?"

The Kull shook his head.

"It requires a lot of strength; physical and mental ability both for the caster – in this instance, Murtagh – quite literally has to wrestle with the wards of this world in order to break them apart and reach through to the void. Upon the completion of that first spell – which cost the dwarven Rider and his dragon –"

"Fargoth and Ornthronde," Orik interrupted.

"Forgive me; Eragon and I did not know their names. That first spell to tear open reality consumed the life force of both dragon and Rider, for Murtagh needed the added strength the hatchlings would give him since he gave up the eldunarí to Eragon at the end of the war. The second spell is why I and Morzan and Durza –"

"What?"

All eyes turned to Arya. Terror flooded the elf's face and Oromis cursed inwards; Eragon had skipped over that part in his tale … understandable since it'd been near enough chaos on that hill top as he'd emerged from death and Eragon couldn't be expected to recall all of what had happened correctly and precisely.

"He's not … he can't be … he's not … is he? I mean … no …" she staggered to her feet and shook her head, backing away from the table. Eragon and Oromis – and the elves from Ceris – rose to their feet in utter alarm at the reaction Durza's resurrection had upon her as Nasuada swept round the table to try and calm Arya down. Though it looked as if she was well and truly panicked at the thought of Durza once more roaming about the world. She backed away from Nasuada trembling from head to foot and gasping for air she was convinced was no longer there.

_We never give her the chance to recover did we?_ Oromis whispered quietly to his dragon's consciousness hidden in a tiny pocket of space behind him – he'd utilised that handy spell given to Eragon for lugging around hoards and hoards of eldunarí.

_She never indicated that she needed time to though. It is as much our fault as hers that she is now suffering all over again._

The doors to the council chamber bulged and shattered as Fírnen forced his way inside. His Rider needed him and so he had come. Saphira strode along in his wake, stopping briefly to inspect the damage her mate had caused the doors before curling up behind Eragon's abandoned chair and promptly falling asleep. It seemed she was no at all surprised by the reaction mention of the Shade sparked in the closest friend of her Rider.

Pushing Nasuada aside with his head, Fírnen curled up round is Rider protectively and remained so until he'd gotten her to calm down and recover. _You can carry on with your story now._ Fírnen told Oromis. _She's listening but I'm just not letting her go._

"Quite right too," Oromis agreed. "You hold onto your Rider tightly, Fírnen Swiftwing." He turned back to his seat and sat as Eragon and Blödhgarm saw to mending the doors that Arya's dragon had shoved aside as if they weighed no more than paper. "Where was I?"

"You'd just mentioned the one name we know never to mention." Roran Stronghammer muttered as Eragon sat beside him.

Oromis nodded. "Well, as I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted; the second spell is why I and a couple of others are now once again roaming the lands in perfect health and not as half-dead corpses trapped in an endless shadowy mimic of life. Murtagh managed to cast the second spell successfully enough that a bridge was created that gave life back to whomever walked it, so long as their name – their true name – was uttered to call them through. Though in the case of Galbatorix neither his true name nor Morzan's were uttered …"

"So how did Murtagh expect to bring him back then?" Eragon asked, curious.

Oromis shrugged. "I suspect Galbatorix had found a way around the need for a true name … who knows. We can ask that brother of yours when we catch up with him."

"I don't have a brother." Eragon replied shortly.

"So what are Orik and I then?" Roran asked his cousin before grinning and hitting him playfully in the arm. Eragon winced and rubbed his bicep and Oromis remembered the cut he'd received from Durza in the half-hearted clash they'd had before the Shade had been dispersed for a while.

Nasuada had resumed her seat while Däthedr cleared his throat. "So how, exactly, did this breach get opened and how, exactly, did Eragon Shadeslayer close it again?"

Eragon turned his gaze upon the newly crowned elven king and gave him a hard, cold look that spoke volumes. Oromis was mildly impressed at how well Brom's son had carried out that look. He remembered the long hours Arya had spent perfecting that look as a child – she'd seen her mother cast that look at least a dozen times a day in her youth. The new elven king shrank back into his seat a bit and shifted uncomfortably. "Yes. Well. Quite right I suppose … forgive me for asking …"

"What will you do now?" the pregnant elf, Lëyri asked, absently caressing her swollen belly. Oromis had spotted Eragon hauling the elf aside as they'd made their way to the council chambers, no doubt to beg her not to mention to Arya anything about the fact the child she carried had once been believed to be Eragon's. He wondered how Eragon planned to bring that up and explain that to Islanzadí's daughter … and also wondered if it would be worth watching – after all, it had been rather entertaining to see Arya slapping Eragon.

Oromis turned to Eragon; the boy really needed to step up to the plate if he wanted to carry on being the Lord Rider. Eragon rolled his eyes. "All we can do I guess is stay here and wait for news to reach us; rumours like the ones stating about the south will undoubtedly emerge so I suggest we all start paying attention to them. Ilirea is well placed to get to near enough anywhere quickly so – if it acceptable with you, Queen Nasuada – we will remain here."

She nodded. "You are most welcome."

Judging by the distorted glow of the moon, it was a couple of hours past midnight as they all grudgingly got to their feet, stretching and headed out of the chamber to seek their beds. As the four monarchs left, their respective guards – who'd all lingered out in the corridor playing dice and cards and chess – snapped to attention and resumed their duties.

Oromis watched as Fírnen uncurled himself round Arya and guide the child – _Oromis. Eragon and Arya aren't children. Stop thinking of them as 'boy' and 'child' all the time, _– to her feet. She kissed him on the snout and then paced towards the exit where Eragon was lingering.

"What?" she snapped at him. "I'm fine!"

Eragon looked at her for a long moment, a small frown upon his face, "If you say so," he decided, wisely not contesting her statement.


	21. Once Upon A Time

**Once Upon A Time …**

* * *

><p>It was raining the next day. Not that Saphira and Fírnen cared all that much since their hard scales kept them dry and the fire in their bellies kept them warm; in all actually Eragon suspected they were rather enjoying the added shine and sparkle the rain brought to their scales. He was pacing towards the far end of a barren exercise hall at the very top of the citadel where the Riders of Old used to train and spar away from the cruel elements of winter. A fire burned in the grate between two full-length windows that were spattered with rain.<p>

Three chairs had been placed before it and a low table with a fruit bowl and two mugs. One of the chairs was a large comfortable looking leather chair with arms and a high back. Oromis was sitting in that one; his long thin fingers wrapped around a third mug that was steaming with a hot drink. The old Rider was staring absently into the flames of the fire. The other two chairs looked to Eragon as though they'd been grabbed from the library and dragged unceremoniously into the hall for the purpose of Oromis's summons that morning.

Arya sat perched on the window ledge, her gaze fixed upon what Eragon did not know for the windows were misted up with rain and condensation. Even as he looked at her – his boots echoing loudly as he strode to the opposite end of the hall – he had the urge to rub his left cheek gingerly; he had _not_ been expecting her to put so much force behind her blows yesterday. But then, in her defence, he did deserve those slaps … sort of. After all, there was, as she had pointed out, a fair amount of things he had not divulged to her in terms of secrets that belonged only and solely to the Dragon Riders.

The echoing of his boots on the stone floor had alerted them both to his presence – or maybe they had sensed his approach out in the corridor? – and Oromis stirred and looked up as Eragon drew level with the three chairs around the fire while Arya shot him the briefest of glances. "Ah. Finally … take a seat;" Oromis nodded towards the two highly uncomfortable looking chairs and Eragon studied them for a full minute before taking a leaf out of Arya's book and choosing instead to sit on the floor before the fire. "Suit yourself."

Oromis's voice echoed high to the rafters of the vaulted ceiling and sent a shiver down Eragon's spine.

"What was it you wanted to discuss?" Eragon asked as he poked a twig into the flames and watched it catch alight. He held onto it until the last possible moment before having to let go and drop the twig into the fire lest he burn the tips of his fingers.

"I was going to impart unto you both the true tale of Du Wydra Nángorörh … unless of course, you have something better to be doing on such a dreary afternoon." Both Eragon and Arya shook their heads and settled themselves to a more comfortable position in preparation for their master to begin his lesson.

"Shouldn't we wait for Fírnen and Saphira?" Arya asked then, her voice soft and gentle and it was only due to his heightened hearing that Eragon even heard her over the crackling of the fire and the pounding of the rain.

"I am sure you can share with them what is happening now; as Glaedr and I had Eragon and Saphira do with their lessons back in Ellesméra."

Eragon shared a glance with Arya, though her gaze was still somewhat remote and he gathered she still hadn't entirely forgiven him for, as she'd put it yesterday, 'leaving in the first place'. Eragon coughed, "They're … um … a little – er … _busy_ at the moment ebrithil … what with – well they haven't … I mean …"

Oromis arched an eyebrow at him. "I should imagine they'd be some time … and this cannot wait; you will have to share this information with them both later – or Glaedr will impart it to them when he teaches them more of what only the dragons know." Their master sighed and put his mug down on the small table. "Can I now begin?"

Eragon threw a glance at Arya. She had already resumed her study of the misted windows. "You can begin when you are ready, ebrithil." He watched as Oromis settled back in his seat and placed the palms of his hands together as he pondered what and where to begin. It almost looked as if the elf was in prayer – but Eragon knew for a fact that that was preposterous for elves did not pray nor worship any form of god or deity.

"You know," Oromis began absently, "we elves once did used to pray … once we even had a god, though we weren't privy to his name for that information was known only to the Grey Folk …" he trailed off thoughtfully.

Arya was giving Oromis her best 'you have got to be joking' look and even Eragon had adopted a similar look of scepticism on his own.

"I suppose," he continued, ignoring or not seeing the disbelief upon the faces of his two pupils, "that is where this history begins; for the truth of Du Wydra Nángorörh very much involves the existence of such a being."

Arya got to her feet; "If you're going to sprout all kinds of nonsense about gods and their existence then I shall leave. I get enough lectures about faith and religion and the state of my soul from the dwarves; I don't need a lecture from you!"

"Sit down and be quite!" Oromis said. He didn't shout – but he didn't need to. His voice carried all the authority it needed and Arya sat, though she didn't look too happy about it. "What I tell you is the truth; the absolute truth. Believe it or not but you _must _accept that, part of it at least, is true and did happen." Eragon held back his own doubts and scepticism as he watched Oromis reprimanding Arya. He was not foolish enough to test the old elf's patience.

"Now then … the deity – or god if you prefer – Arven, was worshipped by the Grey Folk as the 'Creator' of all things and this belief was shared by the elves." He threw Arya a very nasty look that promised he'd hang her by her toes from the roof of the citadel in the rain if she dared to interrupt him. "This was long, long ago mind you; back when we had only just reached the shores of Alagaësia and when our lives were fleeting and as short as a human's. Together with the Grey Folk they believed that one god – not dozens or so – had created the world into being and then created the races to walk and roam and share in the peace of it all.

"It was said that Arven believed in letting his children make their own paths and their own destinies. He rarely intervened and sought to lead his worshippers to the paths that would lead them to the answers they would beseech him for, rather than give them freely. For, as you both well know, the path to understanding often times brings more enlightenment than the final answer."

Eragon listened, not really attempting to examine and pick at what Oromis was saying just yet; he decided there was wisdom in hearing the old elf out entirely first before making up his own mind as to the soundness of his master's. "I think," he was saying, "that will be enough to be getting on with." Whatever Arya was thinking, Eragon hadn't the faintest idea, though he could – by the way she was holding herself – guess that she'd already decided their master had lost his grip on sanity a bit during his time in the void.

Oromis picked up a bright green apple and looked at it for a moment before tossing it through the air towards Arya. She caught it without blinking but did not utter a word of thanks. Eragon received a sharp rap on the head as his own apple bounced off his skull and rolled under the table. At least that had gotten a smirk out of Arya.

"You both know – I am sure – of how magic was bound to the language we are now speaking and that it took all the strength of the race of the Grey Folk for such a feat to be completed? And that in doing so the Grey Folk faded out to become nothing more than legend?" they both nodded dutifully, and Eragon decided he was hungry enough to go looking for the apple that had bruised him. "And I suppose you both remember how I told you we do not know what the catastrophe was that provoked them into doing such a thing?"

Again, as Eragon straightened up with his apple, they both nodded.

"What you did not know – because I did not tell you – was that we Riders know exactly what occurred for a Grey Man, the last of his race, sought out the Peacebringer and divulged to him all that he knew." Oromis paused and re organised his thoughts as Eragon took a large bite out of his apple. Glancing over at Arya, perched as she was on the low sill of the window, he saw she was peeling the skin off with a small dagger he guess she kept hidden beneath her clothing. "You're mother never used to eat the skin off an apple," Oromis said wryly then to Arya.

"I know. That's why I don't like it; because when I was small she would always take the skin off before giving me one to eat … but carry on with your story."

"Story? This is history."

"Same difference."

Eragon smiled and laughed slightly.

"Very well … back when magic required little more than a thought or a whim, the Grey Folk were tall and mighty; they walked this land in its splendid youth. The dwarves had yet to emerge from their caverns under the mountains and the elves and humans had only just dared to cross the seas. Dragons were young and fearsome and all was well. The Grey Folk worshipped a deity by the name of Arven and it was believed that when a Folk died, his soul would depart this world to join Arven in his heavenly kingdom above the stars." His worlds had a memorised quality about them – as if Oromis had learnt the words and lore back when he was only a lowly apprentice himself. It was as if he'd been forced to learn and accept these words despite, perhaps, not fully accepting it to be truth. What did elves need gods for?

"Now then," Oromis continued, "according to the Grey Man – a certain, Marriys, I believe his name was said to be – there once lived a powerful King whose wife suddenly died of an illness he did not have the power or the wisdom to cure. In his grief he offered Arven the lives of his three sons in exchange for the return of his wife, but was denied such a request."

Eragon was glad for the fire; he laid back and stared up at the intricately vaulted ceiling a good three hundred feet above him and listened to the history, refusing to – as Arya no doubt was – judge the tale until it was complete.

"In his anger, the King decided to make war upon Arven and take back his wife by force. His intention was to besiege the wards of this world and break into his palace. With all the raw and untamed power of Magic – that's magic with a capital 'm' by the way – the King let loose his desire to break apart Arven's Walls and reclaim his departed wife. The King succeeded, much as Murtagh did, and in ripping apart reality the King soon found that there was no way for his beloved wife to cross over to him; there was no path for her to tread through the breach." Oromis sighed and shifted in his chair, the legs scraping against the flagstone floor. "I am sure you both can see the similarities between what is happening in this tale and what Murtagh achieved.

"While the King was inventing the bridge I walked across, a task that included a way to bend and break all Magic to his will, Arven grew angry and cast the King's wife – and indeed all those souls who dwelt in his kingdom – into the void where the King could not reach her. Not without her True Name … and in those times True Names had not yet come into light.

"Hurt and betrayed by his god, Arven bent the Magic to heel and cast the bridge into being; with his army behind him, all of whom wielded Grey Blades, the King marched into Arven's Palace and slayed the god he had once worshipped so unwaveringly."

"Hang on," Arya interrupted, despite the warning not to, "you're telling me that some man broke apart reality and then marched through heaven and killed a god. Just like that? Some mighty god that was; surely a god is immortal and invincible?"

Oromis's look told Arya quite plainly that if she interrupted one more time, he _would_ dangle her by her toes from the roof. Eragon suppressed his smirk otherwise Oromis would have him hanging there with her. "A god is not meant to be killed and when the King's axe removed the god's head, Magic itself rebelled against him and threw him from the kingdom back to earth – or tried to. The bridge that had carried them across to Arven's Palace was protected by a force of life and as Magic crashed against that force, the land of the living began to wither and crumble and die as all turned to dust. It was at that point that Marriys comes into the tale; he pushed the King off the bridge of light and into the collapsing and dying heaven. Then he and the army turned and fled back to this land as the tear in the Walls collapsed and shut – trapping the King in the dying heaven with the dead god he had slain."

"Like the breach closed when I uttered those spells, moments after you slipped through?" Eragon questioned, trying to visualise what Oromis was describing.

"Very much so I should imagine … the rest of the tale is simply how Arven – for his soul survived though his body didn't – bound Magic to the ancient language and limited it to the limits of the language, making it simple magic without the uppercase 'm'. However the loss of magic existing separate in the air made the Grey Folk wither and weaken as their Women became barren and their Men infertile … which is how they died out."

Eragon threw his apple core into the flames as his master rounded off the history lesson. "And the words and incantations that could reproduce the feat that King did were forbidden and hidden and given to the Riders for safe keeping in case – on the off chance – that they would be needed so that we could find a way to safely close the breach. Although, personally, I think the revelation that such a feat was possible should've died with Marriys … It was called The Blasted Fate and the Peacebringer entrusted the knowledge only to the most senior of Riders."

"And naturally, you elves abandoned Arven when you learnt that he'd been killed?" Eragon guessed, still staring at the ceiling. "Because, as Arya said, what use is a god when he can be slain by a mortal?"

"Quite right; Marriys was cursed to live until the Peacebringer arrived … and I believe he had to wait a good few centuries before that occurred. No doubt that was Arven's punishment to Marriys for turning against his King – even if it did save the world." Oromis carried on talking; explain and analysing as he was wont to do; Eragon would've listened and probably participated but at that point Arya brushed against his mind.

_ Do you seriously believe all this?_

_He's speaking truths, Arya. He cannot lie._

_I don't believe it._

_You're just prejudiced._

With an audible sigh she said; _Maybe I am. But what help has any god given us?_

_If, what Oromis says is true, direct help and intervention is not exactly Arven's style._

_Was. That supposed god died remember?_

Eragon rolled his eyes and sat up. _Yes … but his soul lived on – weren't you listening?_

After a moment's silence, Arya asked, _You don't believe it do you? The existence of a god?_

He thought about it for a long while, _I want to,_ he admitted softly to her, _but can I give myself over completely to an idea or way of life as such? Part of me wants to believe yet there is too much doubt inside me; I cannot help but think –_

_What if he's wrong?_ Arya finished. _Without proof … why commit yourself to believing in something when you have no evidence to suggest that something even exists?_

He was pleased that she was at least, giving thought to the idea that a god _could_ exist and not dismissing it entirely. _That many people can't be wrong._

_You'd be surprised. A person is intelligent; people are stupid._

Eragon had to agree she was right. As they were talking, Eragon made up his mind – in that small part he kept hidden from hers – and softly, his lips barely moving, he whispered in a voice lost in the crackling of the flames and the pounding of the rain, Arya's True Name. He had to know – had to be certain – that she was the same person he'd left behind. He watched as she shivered; like someone trailing a light finger down her spine, and she looked him in the eye.

He watched her lips moving slightly, though he did not hear her actually say it, and he felt his entire being writhe and shiver as he respond to his True Name.

_You have not changed …_ she whispered in his mind, her voice marvelling over that fact.

_Nor have you. And how could I? When you were the one changing me so? Saphira – Saphira and I are a part of each other – just as you and Fírnen are. When we are so the same and are the same, then how can we change someone? It takes someone different from you to change you._

_Have you been talking to Glaedr by any chance?_ Arya asked suspiciously – though he could feel her joy echoing his as it leaked through their temporary connection; time had not destroyed the other … they were the same people who'd been forced to part on a windswept river bank sixteen years ago now.

_Umaroth._

_Ah. I was close though._

_Not really; they're two completely different dragons._

_But both eldunarí …_

_That doesn't make them –_

"Have you two finished?" Oromis demanded impatiently. "I am trying to complete this history lesson here; and it's rather difficult when you two are sitting there grinning like fools and not paying me the slightest bit of attention!"

Eragon turned and looked at his master, purposely giving him the blankest look he could and blinking stupidly a couple of times; "I'm sorry … what? You were saying something about elves once worshipping a god … Arven was it?"

He got another apple to the head for that.

* * *

><p>AN : _I'll try not to over complicate this further but this is by no means a promise.__  
><em>


	22. The Crack Of Dawn

**The Crack of Dawn**

* * *

><p>If he'd been given the option, Eragon would like to have said that it was the birds singing through the open windows that led out to a small balcony that had woken him that morning. However that was not the case. A jug of ice cold water was poured all over his head and a very loud, "Get up! Now!" roused him at the crack of dawn. Eragon jerked upright, fumbling in the dim light and promptly fell off the bed. Footsteps paced away to the door – which was left wide open – and he heard the process of a rude awakening being repeated in Arya's room down the corridor.<p>

"Come along children! We haven't got all day!"

Wondering what on earth was the matter, Eragon staggered upright, yawning and running a hand through his damp hair as he pulled on his boots and grabbed a shirt. Out in the corridor he met a rather disgruntled Arya and an overly awake Oromis. She was bare foot and clad in legging and a vest and was rubbing tiredly at her eyes. Strands of hair clung to her neck from where Oromis had thrown the jug of water over her to wake her up. Their master stood impatiently at the other end of the corridor; he wore light trousers and polished boots and a red shirt with a light gold cloak fastened at his throat and his sword sheathed at his hip.

"There is much too be done; come."

Eragon shared a glance with Arya. She too seemed put out at the unceremonious wake-up call. They trailed behind the old Rider as he marched swiftly through the castle, not at all concerned that his two pupils seemed on the verge of sleepwalking. Though it was early, Nasuada's stronghold was teaming with life as servants and other such workers all hurried about their business so that, when the Queen woke, such things as breakfast and the day's itinerary would be on schedule. Oromis led Eragon and Arya out into the gardens at the back of the castle. The sun had not yet risen fully and so it was chill out in the shade of the royal gardens. Arya shivered.

"It should be a crime to rouse someone at such an unseemly hour," she muttered to Eragon. He grinned.

"Aye; and in such a cruel manner too."

Finally Oromis came to a stop in a bare expanse of grass roughly a hundred feet square. He turned sharply on his heel, his cloak swirling in the light breeze, and watched as Eragon and Arya trudged along towards him. The dew on the grass was soaking into his boots and he wondered how Arya was faring bare foot and if she regretted not taking time to put on shoes – not that Oromis gave them any time. They stopped about ten feet away from him and waited for some kind of explanation … though by the look on Oromis's face, that wasn't likely.

He pointed to the centre of the square, "The third level of Rimgar… well? What are you waiting for?"

"Now?" Arya asked. "I don't understand."

Oromis rolled his eyes. "And that is why I am the teacher and you are the learner."

Eragon sighed and decided that there was little point in putting on his shirt if Oromis was going to make him sweat … and the day was only going to get hotter. As he and Arya, with many mumbled mutterings and filthy looks directed at their master, began the series of exercises that maintained health and balance, Oromis watched with a critical eye until he was satisfied they were doing it correctly.

"By your own accounts, there are still many things that you both do not know. While you both are knowledgeable on the ordinary aspects of magic and its uses – to the point that you both are at the same level of understanding I might add – there is still that which you do not know and yet need to be taught. Or should I call them the Rider's secrets?" Oromis walked in a circle around Eragon and Arya; while her balance had been perfected years ago – his was still at times shoddy at best. There was one pose that defeated him and he lost balance completely, toppling to the floor and accidently pulling Arya down with him.

"Get up and try again Eragon. You must perfect your balance." Oromis commanded. "Arya you too; you should've been able to remain upright when he fell." Arya gave both men a look of annoyance before taking five steps away from them both and resuming the Rimgar.

"You're going to teach us these secrets then?" Eragon asked, huffing as he struggled through the various poses.

Oromis inclined his head. "That I shall … while Glaedr imparts to Saphira and Fírnen that which belongs only to the dragons … where are they by the way?"

"They never came back last night," Arya told him.

"Well I take it you and he would appreciate tutorage in how to fight against a dragon and Rider?" she nodded. "Very well; I am sure Eragon and Saphira could do with more practice in that area as well." Oromis nodded sharply; taking a moment or two to himself while Eragon and Arya continued with the Rimgar. "Well now; once you've done this I'd like you both to go out of the city and run to the Ridge of Galdrí and back again. By that time the sun should be up and I will be waiting for you both."

Without much more of an explanation, Oromis turned and headed back towards the castle. He paused at the edge of the expanse of grass and looked over his shoulder at them both. "And next time I give you a history lecture; pay attention! Or I'll drag you out of bed at first light again!" Before either of them could protest, he'd already strode out of ear shot. Well at least Eragon now knew why it was the unceremonious wakening; Oromis was still annoyed that Ergon and Arya had chosen to have a private conversation while he'd been waffling on about the god in his tale yesterday. But Eragon didn't care; he'd take a hundred of Oromis's wake-up calls if he had to because Arya was still the friend he had left behind.

Naturally, Arya finished first. She leant against the nearest tree and watched as Eragon struggled through the final pose and laughed at the mishap he'd turned it into. He sat down in a heap on the grass and after a moment Arya joined him. She too seemed to no longer feel the chill of a morn before the sun had risen fully. "I don't suppose you happen to know where this Ridge of Galdrí is do you?" he asked.

She looked down at her lap, a small frown on her face. "It's the name given to the spot where Galdrí of Nädindel made his final stand during the War of the Houses. It is also the place where Galbatorix killed my father."

Eragon looked at her, watching closely. Though sixteen years had not changed her – not enough to alter who she was – there were smaller changes. She was no longer as remote as she had been during the war, and he detected about her an uncertainty that hadn't been there when they'd been toppling Galbatorix. He wondered how it had gotten there.

She sighed and got to her feet, "Come; we should do as Oromis says. If we are not gone by the time he arrives I have no doubt he'll make us run twice as far."

"Probably," Eragon agreed, cambering to his feet. He grabbed his shirt and tugged it on as they made their way through the empty streets and out of the West Gate. "Will you be alright bare foot?" he asked then, only just remembering she was not wearing shoes.

A small smile flitted across her face; "I never wore shoes until I left with your father to aid the Varden." She shrugged, "I never needed to until then."

They set off, running at a steady pace with Arya leading the way. By the time they reached the Ridge of Galdrí the sun had fully risen and was steadily pouring its heat down upon the surface of the earth where Arya and Eragon were running. On the way there, they'd talked of lesser things like the early summer and the annoying yet heart-warming antics of their dragons; however on their return to the city it became too hot and they could not afford to waste breath in talk. Determined and stubborn as they were; they were adamant about beating the other one back to the city.

When they were less than a mile away, Eragon began to increase his pace, lengthening his strides and speeding them up. Beside him, Arya did the same and it occurred to Eragon then that he could win and would win only because his legs were longer than hers and because he – being a man – was naturally stronger than she was because he was heavier and had more weight to use to his advantage. Even so it was close for Arya, though she must've realised as Eragon had, refused to give in.

Ilirea was already swamped with life as the two Riders made their way through the streets and back to the gardens of the citadel. They'd ceased their running at the gates for it would be impractical to try and run through the masses and crowds that now lined the streets, yammering to each other for this trinket or that necessity. Eragon marvelled at how much wealth and prosperity had thrived under Nasuada's rule; that looming sense of dread and darkness that had prevailed when Galbatorix reigned was gone.

He said as much to Arya, who nodded. "Indeed. The people love her; and she has been precisely what this land has needed to once more allow the peace to flow like it did when the Riders were tall and proud." Then she frowned. "Though these rumours – now confirmed – have put a damper on things; the people – and not just the humans but the dwarves, Urgals and elves – fear that we may have another Galbatorix on our hands."

Eragon thought about it; "Murtagh would not want to rule; no he'd put a puppet on the throne and let _them_ get all the blame for ill will and so forth."

Arya gazed at him, "Can you be sure of that? Can you be certain that his desire is not to take up the place of Galbatorix? Remember he now has his father's influence to deal with – and Morzan will have more control over Murtagh than the Oath-Breaker did."

"I cannot be certain of anything anymore," Eragon told her softly. "I don't understand why he would do this … he helped us get rid of that monster. Why would he rip apart reality to try and bring him back?"

They'd come to a stop in the middle of the street; people jostled past them, sparing them half a glance and not noticing who they were, while those on the market stalls nearby were able to realise that Eragon Shadeslayer and Arya Dröttningu were less than ten feet away.

"I know no more than you do," she told him.

"I wish I'd known," he muttered, looking out over the crowd but not seeing it. "I wish I had never let him go; that I hadn't made that mistake in thinking that one small act had redeemed him completely."

"Yes," Arya said, "that was, perhaps, a foolish act; letting him be."

Eragon looked sharply at her. "Then why didn't you say anything at the time?" he demanded.

She worked her jaw before answering; "Because my mother's selfish demise had me rather distracted; I honestly do not recall what happened between receiving that news and Fírnen hatching for me." Eragon placed a hand on her shoulder.

"You miss her." It wasn't a question.

There was pain in her eyes; a scar from a loss she hadn't realised would hurt so much until it was too late. "Every day." Arya's voice was quiet and gentle, as if speaking the words softly would lessen the painful truth. She took a deep breath with the air of one determinedly trying to steer the conversation away from painful subjects. "But that is beside the point, as is the fact that you made a mistake in letting Murtagh and Thorn go at the end of the war; all that matters is that we – you and I – will find a way to stop him."

A flood of relief washed over him at that statement for that was all that he wanted from her; the promise she would be at his side no matter how dark things became. The promise that she didn't at all blame him for his choice to let them go and the promise that she would never abandon him for she knew he would return those unspoken promises of friendship.

"And the dragons," Eragon added.

She allowed as smile at that. "And the dragons of course. That is if we can pry them apart long enough." He laughed, letting his mirth show on his face as they resumed their easy walk back up to the citadel where Oromis was no doubt waiting for them to return. "We may have to set some ground rules – otherwise they may decide to up and leave us with no warning."

"I doubt they'd listen to any rules we set them."

"True."

Easy conversation flowed between them as they wove through the crowd back towards Nasuada's castle. Though they did come up with a set of rules for their dragons, they both agreed that Saphira and Fírnen would just be insulted and therefore decided to spend more time together and less with their Riders. They were waylaid several times on their way up to the stronghold as wives, children, husbands and grandfathers all hurried over desperate for advice, or for a story or just so that they could be seen talking to two such legendary people.

As two women with babies on their hips and children trailing at their skirts walked off, apparently satisfied with the advice given to them, Eragon distinctly heard the brunette telling the blonde, "No, no; they is _definitely_ 'eeping compaany wit each uther Helda."

"And how'd you work tha' one out Bess?"

"'Tiss da way they is lookin' at each uther." Helda said.

"Ah riaght. See I knows there is somefank there." Bess agreed.

Once upon a time, such gossip would've embarrassed Eragon to the core, and his immediate reaction would be to catch up with the two women and put them straight. But now he was older and he knew that was nothing more than a child's reaction and only served to strengthen idle gossip for the more it's denied the stronger it becomes. Now he just shook his head in amusement and wondered idly who else he was supposedly 'keeping company' with.

It took him a moment to realise Arya was several feet ahead and had been set upon by a group of children desperate for a story or three. He lengthened his stride, though his legs were stiff from running all the way to the Ridge of Galdrí and back, and watched as his friend interacted with the children. A small smile came to his lips as he saw her picking up the littlest – a young girl with buttery locks that fell into sweet ringlets to her shoulders – and answering the questions thrown at her without pause.

"It's the Shadeslayer!" a black haired boy with his two front teeth missing yelled. The gang of children abandoned Arya and rushed Eragon instead. However the little girl in Arya's arms didn't seem to want to move. Arya laughed as the children all crowded round him, yanking on his arms, and seizing hold of his legs as they all demanded his attention at once. Finally he managed to silence them all by retelling the tale of Roran Stronghammer (Eragon had had enough of his own adventures for one day) and he was mildly impressed at how well he'd converted some of them to his cousin's fan club rather than his own.

They shook the children off at the gates to the citadel; there were forlorn looks and quivering bottom lips as the Nighthawks, Eragon learnt they had been grown into a force dedicated to the protection of the castle as well as Nasuada's personal protection, lowered the heavy portcullis after allowing the two Riders back inside. Not that a portcullis could really keep them out but still – they had to maintain the illusion that no one could get in without they're saying so.

"You know," Arya mused then as they retraced their steps to the royal gardens, "I think this may be the longest Fírnen and I have spent apart from one another."

Eragon looked at her. "You know that's not good for you both? You need to be able to function apart as well as together."

She rolled her eyes. "I thought Oromis was our teacher, not you."

"He'll say the same thing though," Eragon predicted with a smile.


	23. Sparring

**Sparring**

* * *

><p>Oromis was waiting for them where he'd left them; standing in the middle of the square of grass with his feet planted shoulder width apart and his arms folded behind his back, staring absently at the sky with Naegling at his hip. It was already warm and uncomfortably so; as Arya and Eragon stepped into the newly designated training area, two dragons sped overhead as they raced back to their Riders. Through their link, Arya sensed Fírnen purposefully holding back so as to let Saphira win the race; she let her amusement at him blur through their link as they melded and merged until they were as one.<p>

_I am never letting you go,_ Arya told him.

_Nor I you … what have I missed?_ Saphira settled down on the grass first, folding her wings back as Fírnen alighted on the sun-warmed earth. Arya skipped lightly over to him and pressed her brow against his snout as she shared with him the memories of Oromis's tale the previous afternoon and the rude awakening that she and Eragon had received that morning. _Well you should've been listening to Oromis rather than cooing Eragon's True Name to him._

_I wasn't cooing!_

_If you say so._

_He started it!_ Arya protested. _And I had to know he had not changed any more than I had._

_Well now you can pick up where you two left off can't you? And maybe you'll be sleeping in his bed by winter – if you get a move on that is._

_Fírnen! _Arya couldn't hide her shock or her embarrassment at her dragon's words. She pulled away from him and looked in his yellow-green eye. _You know perfectly well that is not what I want._

_Isn't it?_ He teased. _I seem to know what you want better than you do._

_Just shut up about it will you? What do you think of this god Oromis spoke of?_

Fírnen mused over it for a while and Arya noticed Eragon was similarly engaged with his own dragon while Oromis remained as he'd been when she'd spotted him; staring up at the sky unmoving. _Do you trust his word?_

_Yes, but –_

_He's not asking you to start worshiping the god is he?_

_No, but –_

_Then why can't you accept that the story is true – in the vaguest of terms – and leave it be?_

_Do you believe it? _Arya pestered.

_I believe that aeons ago someone used magic as it shouldn't be used and Du Wydra Nángorörh spells were born. Do I believe that an all-powerful being exists or existed? No. No I do not. But that doesn't mean I don't believe Oromis's tale; parts of it could be true. Is history ever accurate? No one tells a tale the same way twice and as this history has been passed down through the Riders; do you not think that parts could've been lost and altered and twisted so it no longer is the full and honest truth that was imparted to the Peacebringer?_

_Like a game of Whispers? _Arya asked, remembering the game she had watched children of the Varden and the dwarves play in Tronjheim; everyone sitting in a circle as one person whispers a word or phrase into their neighbour's ear, who would in turn whisper it to the next person along, and so on until the word or phrase reached the last person who'd then utter the word or phrase out loud and compare it with the original statement amid many giggles and laughter for it never was entirely accurate and often distorted to the point where it didn't remotely resemble what had first been uttered.

_Exactly._ Fírnen snorted. _Who knows what the actual truth of the tale is? All that we can do is accept that his version is true – to an extent – and move on. Even if we were to discover the truth, who's to say that _we_ would be believed?_

Arya kissed his snout. _Why are dragons so smugly wise?_

_Because ours is the oldest of races._ He let out a huff of smoke and nudged Arya back a step or two playfully. _I think Oromis is wanting to continue the lessons_. Arya turned in time to see Oromis stirring and look down from his study of the morning sky.

"Well now. Let's see how badly you have let your sword craft slip shall we?" He nodded his head and Arya turned to see her emerald sword leaning against the trunk of a tree next to Eragon's sapphire one. Eragon was nearer and drew both the blades from the sheathes before striding to the middle of the grassy square. Arya halted about five feet away from him and accepted Támerlein when Eragon offered it to her hilt first.

Gathering from within the necessary magic, she said; "gëuloth du knífr," and blocked the edges of her blade as Eragon mimicked her. She swung the blade around to readjust herself to the slightly altered balance of the blade and nodded to herself satisfied; Eragon was absently scratching of a fleck of dirt off the cross-guard of Brisingr.

"Surely you two are proficient enough to spar with sharpened swords?" Oromis asked mildly. "But you've already cast the spells now so carry on; try not to damage each other too permanently alright? I can cure most things, I confess, but not even I can heal a broken neck."

Arya frowned at him, but decided to let it go for he probably wasn't aware that a broken neck was how her mother had died. It had been a long time since she and Eragon had last sparred together. In fact something told her that the last time had been before they'd descended into the tunnels under Dras Leona … _If you carry on daydreaming then he'll win. At least try to put up a fight – for appearances sake you understand._

_Don't the scales on your tail need cleaning?_ She retorted acidly.

She turned her attention to Eragon, who had already taken a good ten paces away from her and was waiting patiently for her. "Ready?" he asked, twirling Brisingr around in his hand and giving her a grin.

Arya settled herself into the 'on guard' position and settled the racing thoughts in her mind enough that she would have a clear head free from distraction. "When you are," she told Eragon, fixing him with a piercing gaze that once would've either unnerved him or made him go weak at the knees. He gave her a wry grin – and stared at her without so much as blinking; neither moved as they studied the other, looking for those minute and subtle changes and movements that would betray their opponent's intentions.

The last time she had sparred with Eragon, he had been woefully outmatched by her and the other elves that had fought alongside the Varden. Glaedr – after much persuasion and emotional blackmailing – had given the then young Rider a crash-course in how to 'see what you are looking at' as he had phrased it. Even she had been surprised at how swiftly Eragon had picked up the art of thinking without thought and moving on instinct and the rapid progression of his training in Ellesméra suddenly had made sense. But that was sixteen years ago and Eragon was no longer only beginning to grasp the implications of what Glaedr taught to him. No doubt he and Blödhgarm had sparred regularly over the course of their exile whereas she … well a queen couldn't be seen to be sparring on the practise fields among commoners … or so Däthedr and the others had insisted.

Before, Eragon had shown an agitated determination to prove that he could do it; a boyish confidence that had him convinced he could and should be able to do everything that was expected of him – and do it well. His youthfulness had made him rash and therefore prone to misjudgements and mistakes; yet his pride would not allow for such things. While he had been full of sureness to the point of being arrogant, there were also doubts and uncertainties about him that caused him to hold back at times when he couldn't afford to. To those who were around him, Nasuada, Orik, Roran, and Blödhgarm and so on, Eragon had given off the illusion and even the impression that he knew exactly what he was doing – but to her, she had always been able to detect that doubt and uncertainty about him that he probably hadn't realised was there.

She barely had time to life Támerlein and block the blow.

Cursing darkly for letting her mind wonder, Arya shoved the blue blade and its owner back three steps before whipping around and darting forwards, changing direction and twisting her sword so it veered sharply towards Eragon's ribs; it was a move that had often baffled him in the past and sent him successfully crumbling to the floor in a heap. The whole sequence took less time than two of her rapid heartbeats. Eragon blocked the blow. He battered Támerlein aside and made to thrust at her exposed chest; Arya twisted and darted to the side in order to escape Brisingr, swing her emerald sword at Eragon's legs instead. Again he blocked her sword with his before swiftly mounting several attacks of his own.

Arya retreated several steps, and Eragon – rather than following her – held off as they began to circle one another. Already the summer heat was unbearable as she began to perspire. Eragon's shirt already appeared to be clinging to him in places; though he had his gaze fixed upon her as she had him – noticing the little things for they made up the significant give-aways that betrayed what the other would do next. Neither had marked the other yet but Arya knew that their contest – for it was a contest because there would undoubtedly be a winner – had only just gotten started; all that they'd achieved in their brief scuffle was testing the other to learn and re learn how the other moved and thought and acted and reacted. Now would the match really begin.

She was aware of Fírnen and Saphira and Oromis and Glaedr watching them both intently but paid them nothing more than a passing thought for she was determined to hold on to her position as the better swordsman – woman – out of her and Eragon. It was petty, she knew, but she'd learnt that being petty was allowed sometimes. Perhaps it was one of those side effects the bond with the dragon had upon a Rider … or maybe it was just her stubbornness her own arrogance bursting through that made her so determined to beat Eragon.

Arya darted back and ducked smoothly and jabbed at Eragon's belly. The edge of her sword caught on Eragon's shirt; he brought his own sword down last second to divert the severity of her blow and somehow managed to wrench Támerlein from her hands and also managed to tear a rather large rip in his shirt. Arya dived towards her sword. Her fingers closed round the hilt as she turned to meet Eragon's oncoming attack. He was frowning with concentration now and she was sure a similarly determined and attentive look covered her own features.

She would _not_ let him win. Light on her feet, Arya feinted to Eragon's right and then swiftly altered her course to go for his left where his sword was already waiting to meet and deflect her blow. At the last second Arya shifted and slipped Támerlein under the flat of Brisingr's blade and instead of trying to wrench the sword from his grip for Eragon was not yet near enough tired for that trick to work, Arya jabbed him on the ribs with the guarded tip of her sword. He grunted and swept Brisingr up as he battered her aside and darted back several steps. A hand went to the spot and she felt a surge of satisfaction. She'd marked him first.

Eragon was watching her with a calculative gaze, and she narrowed her eyes and waited for any sign that would betray his next move. He absently scratched at his chin with his free hand and then mopped the sweat forming on his brow with his sleeve before shrugging out of his now ruined shirt and tossing it aside; Arya took instant advantage – he should know better by now not to let such distraction get to him. When, however, he blocked and countered her blows, successfully giving her three painful welts on the ribs and her thigh, Arya cursed silently as she realised it had been a ruse to spite her into over-confidence.

In any other situation, Fírnen would choose that moment to make some witty and dry comment about her losing but he refrained because he knew that she would not take kindly to his interruption especially if it cost her more ground. He must've sensed how badly she wanted to win this contest because he was unusually quiet and extremely attentive; watching her with both his eyes and his mind though he dared not hand out suggestions and observations to her. His steadfast presence over her reminded Arya of how Saphira would loom in the background of the sparring sessions she had with Eragon during the war.

Even as she had been then, she was now. Gazing and watching silently without moving – appearing to judge not only her own Rider, but Arya as well. Before it had unnerved her that the dragon had taken such an interest in watching her and Eragon spar – and also the fact that it was extremely difficult to gauge the dragon's emotions; Arya had not been able to tell if she was about to get trampled or not whenever she sent Eragon crumpling to the ground. It struck her then at how _frightening_ a dragon must be to someone who couldn't commune with them – how was one to determine what the dragon may be thinking or feeling?

As she fended off another frenzy of instinctual attacks from Eragon, Arya wondered if Oromis would have any critique to give once the battle was over. Probably – once a teacher, forever a teacher and a teacher took the firm and rather annoying view that there was _always_ room for improvement. She should know since Arya had often adopted that outlook when dealing with the hatchlings during their tuition. Turning sharply and taking two steps forwards, she stepped into Eragon's inner defences even as she'd done when fighting Yerzogr in Leavall. However Eragon's sword was no longer than her own and she realised that she would end up trapping her own blade as well as his. He shoved her back roughly and swung at her exposed shoulder; Arya lifted Támerlein and caught Brisingr before it added to the fine collection of welts and bruises it had already dealt her. Their swords locked at the hilts and Eragon flashed her a wild grin and jerking backwards so suddenly that she nearly lost her balance. Retreating several paces, Arya stared at Eragon with hard eyes even as he stared back.

They both acted at the same moment and darted forwards to meet with a resounding clash as their blades rang and hummed and vibrated from the relentless pounding they were receiving as Eragon and Arya fought to edge of their endurance. Her arms like lead, desperate for some reprise to gain a drink and a rest – but absolutely not going to suggest or ask for one – Arya wondered idly how long they'd now been sparring … it felt like forever and no time at all. The excessive heat was making her lightheaded and Eragon was faring no better. Lapsing in concentration and also memory as she ceased to think and strove only to act and react to him; their contest became almost elemental in nature as any conscious and perhaps rational thought and control over their actions was lost in the hazy calm fierce joy of pushing themselves over the limit and beyond.

Arya wasn't sure how it happened – and from the look on Eragon's face neither was he. As they once again sprang apart before then jumping back together to clash again, Arya stumbled slightly over her own feet and cursed aloud. "Thurra wyrda!"

She swiftly regained her balance and composure, but the deed was done. Acting on instinct, she met his oncoming swing and then failed to control her sword as he released the pressure he'd been putting on her blade. As a result Eragon was able to batter Támerlein out of her hand and then jab her sharply in the stomach with the pommel of his sword. Arya staggered from the blow and from exhaustion and fell abruptly to the floor. She winced as her head hit the floor with force enough that it bounced; the world spun.

When the world stopped spinning, Arya found the guarded end of Brisingr wavering above her neck. Flickering her eyes up she found Eragon standing above her, heaving and panting just as she was, and his arm trembling from the effort it took to hold his sword above her and not accidently hurt her any more than he had in their contest.

_I … um … well …_

_He won. Yes. I gathered as much myself._

_Don't take it out on me; you fought well – you both did._ But she wasn't angry or annoyed, not really; the fight in itself had been fun and refreshing. Fírnen seemed to approve of her line of thought.

Eragon lowered his sword and gazed over to where Oromis had stood and watched, and then frowned. Thinking that their master had long since gotten bored and wondered off, Arya tilted her head back to find Oromis still there, but with a large crowd of onlookers including Nasuada, Orik, Roran and many others besides.

_How long were we fighting?_

_A while – an hour … maybe a bit more …_

Looking up at Eragon, Arya detected the same surprise she felt echoed in his tired expression; Saphira must've just told him how long they'd been sparring. He sighed, ran a hand through his sweaty hair and then glanced down at where Arya lay sprawled across the grass. In truth she couldn't yet muster up enough energy to try and drag herself to her feet. Eragon gave her a small smile and then held out a hand. She stared at it for a minute before reaching out her own and letting him haul her upright.

Arya scavenged Támerlein as Eragon picked up his long discarded shirt and they both traipsed over to where Oromis and the others had sought out the shade of a large oak tree. Oromis handed them wordlessly each a large goblet of water which they accepted thankfully. Eragon looked distinctly uncomfortable with the open awe Ajihad, Garrow, Cadoc, Ismira and Hope were staring at him with; Arya supressed a tired smirk and then narrowed her eyes when she noticed the women among the crowd all staring – some with open mouths and hot longing in their eyes – at Eragon's bare torso, drenched as he was in sweat.

_Oh. Because you're not at all staring are you?_

In her defence, it was hard not to – the muscle under his skin rippled and flexed as he moved, betraying the fact that he had not forgone physical exercise during his sixteen year absence and that Eragon had taken care not to let himself go. He wasn't bursting with muscle like his cousin was; he had that hard lean build that hadn't destroyed his natural appearance, but rather enhanced it and improved it with definition.

Before Fírnen could tease her again, Arya turned back to the crowed as Roran spoke to Eragon with a grin; "Not the first time you've left a woman on her back exhausted is it?" A low chuckling from Orik accompanied Roran's words as Blödhgarm openly smirked. His nephew, Adiré – Arya had been introduced to them the previous night at dinner – glanced at the pregnant elf Lëyri, and Arya spotted the faintest tinge of a flush on her cheeks as she clutched her belly.

"Shut up Roran."

"Oh … so it is?" His grin got wider.

"I think it's safe to say it isn't." Eragon said sharply.

Oromis chose that moment to intercede, and Arya watched as Eragon gave the old Rider a grateful nod. "You fought well – if not to your strengths. Because of the difference in the ways the male and female body are made, you, Eragon, are naturally heavier and muscular than Arya is. As a result you are stronger for you have more weight to use to your advantage and put into your blows. Arya …" He pointed a finger at her, "You're problem is that you've already decided you know it all. You're lighter and therefore faster; try to remember that next time you go up against someone who is naturally stronger and heavier than you are. Incidentally you could've held your own against Yerzogr in Leavall if you'd remembered that and not determinedly tried to meet with him every blow as you did with Eragon." He motioned to the castle, "Go and wash and eat and rest, both of you. Meet me in the library an hour after lunch. Saphira and Fírnen if you stay I will tell you what I wish you to do in the meantime."

Arya trailed at the back of the group heading to the relative coolness of the citadel; up ahead Eragon seemed to be teasing his cousin, much to the amusement of Roran's children. Blödhgarm fell into step beside Líften and Narí, who were striding along ahead of her. The elf must've been suffering in the heat with all the fur he had covering his body, but he gave no sign of discomfort. Arya suspected he'd long since devised a spell to keep himself cool in the summer. He was staring at Lëyri's back as she strode along with Adiré as if trying to work out some obscure riddle.

His mate, Delsá was carrying the empty sheathes of Eragon and Arya's swords and she walked alongside him in silence. "So if the child isn't his, then whose?" Narí was asking.

"She says she does not know." Blödhgarm muttered.

"And you believe that? Look at them!"

"That is my nephew Líften. Take care what you are suggesting … he thinks too highly of the Shadeslayer to do that to him."

"But love knows no bounds," Delsá pointed out softly. "Even the wrath of a Dragon Rider cannot sway it."

Coupled with the rumours she'd heard in the market earlier that day, Arya's suspicion as to _how_ Lëyri became to be in her condition began to strengthen.

_Did you expect him to wait for you? _Fírnen asked. _When you gave him no definitive answer other than your pathetic plea for time you did not need?_

For once, Arya chose to ignore him.

* * *

><p>AN : _you know, I think this is my longest chapter yet ... don't worry; more Eragon & Arya coming next chapter :)_

_"joey stop hitting on her, it's her wedding day" "what, like there's a rule or something?" sorry, I'm watching Friends.__  
><em>


	24. A Wager

**A Wager**

* * *

><p>He had just stepped out of the bath tub when there came a knocking on his door. Eragon cursed; grabbed his undershorts and yanked them on before hurrying over to the door as whoever it was knocked again. "Is there no patience in this place?" he asked as he wrenched the door open.<p>

"When you take so long to answer, can you blame me?" Arya said.

"I was bathing. I hardly think you'd of appreciated it if I answered your knocking without first putting some clothes on."

She didn't answer him as she stepped inside the room. Her hair was damp – although in this heat it wouldn't take long to dry – and she'd chosen to pull on a light dress rather than leggings and a shirt like before and Eragon suspected she'd have no issue sparring with him whilst wearing it if she had to. Arya perched on the edge of the unmade bed as Eragon yanked on his trousers and then gave his hair a half-hearted rub with the towel; as he made to dry off his chest, he somehow managed to drop the towel into the tub of bathwater.

"Cleaver."

He sank down onto the chest where he stored his clothes and shook his head but didn't respond to Arya's comment. He looked over at where she sat and frowned wondering what it was bothering her so much; her lack of speech told him that this was not merely a social visit. Arya had something she wanted to talk to him about – if that wasn't the case then she wouldn't be so tense and they'd be in the middle of some unimportant but vital conversation.

"Are you going to tell me what it is bothering you? Or are we going to sit here in silence until you decide the time is right?"

Arya glanced over at him, her eyes wide and then she closed them and let out a small laugh. "You know me too well," she murmured.

"Or maybe I've just learnt to recognise when there is something troubling someone."

"Tell me about your home."

"I don't have a home."

She frowned, "So where have you been living these past years?"

Eragon sighed and shrugged. "There's an island – about three week's voyage from Hedarth; the others all settled there; built homes from the trees and from the rose quartz we found there. I just … I stayed in my cabin on the _Talítha_."

"Why?"

He struggled to find some coherent reason for his thoughts and actions over the past sixteen years. "I guess I just couldn't settle."

"Couldn't, or wouldn't?" Arya asked softly.

It was his turn to laugh. "Both I suppose. Building myself a home on the island would mean that I'd accepted that my home was no longer here … but then not even the elves could stop thinking of Alagaësia as home." Eragon looked at her; whatever it was she wanted to talk to him about, she seemed to be content for the moment in listening to him. So he told her about the island. He told Arya of the shining still lake where the cave they used to store the eldunarí overlooked; Eragon told her about the yellow beach with the young forest growing at its edge. About the driftwood campfires they'd sit around each night and laugh and sing and tell stories and jokes. He described each of the homes the elves had built for themselves – of how Adiré had gotten on the wrong side of a large lion only weeks before he had the dream of Du Wyrda Nángorörh.

"There was a hill on the far side of the island; we'd go there and lay back and watch the clouds roll by, with the sound of the sea in the background … it was … it was peaceful," he mused, "peaceful but dull." Eragon finished with a shrug; "When you grew up with the savage beauty of the Spine around you, it's difficult to find somewhere just as exciting and yet beautiful to compare with it."

"There is something comforting about the wildness of the Spine," Arya agreed.

With a smile, Eragon said; "What of you? How's Ellesméra been these past sixteen years?"

"The same. Ellesméra is always the same. Aeons could past and Ellesméra would not change." Arya shook her head and frowned to herself before speaking of her time there as the queen. He listened just as she had, grinning openly when Arya described the outrage her court had displayed upon learning Arya had agreed to and already signed the treaty with Nasuada, Orik Orrin and the Urgals. Eragon had a strong suspicion that Arya had caused many upheavals during her time on the Knotted Throne and that she'd purposefully made sure of that fact. "Däthedr will make a good king," Arya finished. "A better ruler than I at any rate."

Eragon shook his head, "Du Weldenvarden needed you. You guided the forest through the difficult era between war and peace; anyone else would've kept your race as secretive and hidden as they'd been since the Fall. You dragged them ruthlessly into the world again so that elves once more walk and mingle with the rest of the races."

They talked some more about how peace and prosperity had returned to Alagaësia and then Arya uttered the four words he'd been dreading, yet expecting; "Tell me about Lëyri."

"Are you going to listen, or have you already decided what happened?"

Arya's eyes narrowed but whatever retort she was going to throw at him died in her throat and he suspected the intervention of Fírnen. Eragon resolved to thank the dragon later. "Rumours have already reached the lower city and the market."

Eragon looked down at his lap. "What do you want to know?" He guessed it would just be easier to have him answering her questions because he didn't know where to start or how to begin to explain to her what had happened between himself and Lëyri.

"Do you love her?"

"No."

Her eyes narrowed. "But were sleeping with her?"

He nodded.

"And the child?"

Eragon closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "She told me it was mine. But Oromis …" suddenly he sprang to his feet and started pacing agitatedly around the room. "He didn't believe her. He'd just walked out of death and the first thing he did was take from me something I hadn't known I wanted until …" Eragon hadn't realised how angry the subject made him. "She came to me Arya, and I … I just wanted something to give me reason not to look back with regret. I tried to love her … but my heart didn't take to her like it did with –" he bit off the end of the sentence and thankfully Arya gave no indication she'd noticed. "Only it proved notoriously difficult to walk away from her; I didn't want to hurt her – I tried so hard not to give her false hope or to lead her on …"

"Does she love you then?"

Eragon thought about it, "I think," he said slowly, "she loves the idea of me. Me being the Dragon Rider who saved the world and all that …"

"So why was it hard to just leave her?"

"Because I had no excuse, other than the blunt and to the point 'I don't love you'. Thing was she wanted a why."

"And you had no why …"

"Blödhgarm has a why," Eragon muttered darkly to himself, but he didn't elaborate on his comment despite Arya's interested look. He wasn't at all sure if Blödhgarm was serious about his theory on why Eragon didn't love Lëyri or not. "Oromis cast a spell to determine the genetics of the child but found no trace of any dragon blood in it."

"So he proved it is not yours … which explains what Líften said."

Eragon whirled around. "What did Líften say?" he demanded.

Arya met his gaze with a calculative look, as if debating the wisdom of telling him and weighing up against how annoyed he'd be if she didn't tell him. "Only that he thinks she knows who the father is."

"Sounds about right." He spun on his heel and started pacing again.

"If you don't love her," Arya said slowly, "then why does her betrayal bother you so much?"

Eragon shrugged and paced out to the balcony where he leant against the rail and looked out over the city below. Ilirea was thriving. When Arya joined him, he said in a low voice, "She adamantly insisted that there was no other for her, but now the child is not mine she is saying she still doesn't know whose it is. Which mean she went behind my back to the arms of more than just one other. Tell me, why _shouldn't_ that bother me?"

Arya placed a hand over his, "But that's not only it is it?" she guessed. "It's the fact that you believed for so long that the child was yours, only now that has been taken from you."

"I have no right to care about that child … but I can't help thinking of it as mine." He shook his head and swore darkly. "Why do you women have such a twisted need to over-complicate a situation and make us men doubt ourselves so much? How are we meant to trust you?" When she pulled away her hand he sighed again. "Sorry … I didn't mean it like that."

"You're angry." Arya said gently. "And you have every right to be; but right now there are more important things to be worrying about."

"And Lëyri? I'm just to let this go?"

"The shame of not knowing who the father of her child is should be enough. No one expects you to raise another man's child and nor should you have to … unless you want to of course."

"If I were to have a family … how long do you think before someone tried to get to me through them? After what happened with Roran and Carvahall … can I put any family of mine in that position and do I have the right to?"

"Enough of these morbid thoughts Eragon," Arya told him firmly. "They will only eat you up from within."

He had to agree with her. With a final sigh he straightened up and gave Arya a small smile which she returned. "Is it lunch time yet?" he asked, his stomach rumbling and groaning for food.

She laughed. "No … but I suppose we had no breakfast so your hunger can be excused …" then she tilted her head and gave him a quizzical look. "Nasuada tells me you refused the opportunity to hold Princess Orianah."

Eragon turned back to the scene below his balcony. Far out to the east, the plains were glowing in the light of the sun. "Can you blame me?"

"And so this will be you forever now will it?" she shook her head. "You have two options; either you throw yourself as Oromis did into the tutorage of other people's children to the exclusion of all else in the hopes you'll forget, or you get up brush yourself off, and move on as if nothing significant happened."

He followed her back inside, his eyes taking time to adjust to the sudden dimness. Arya threw a linen vest at him and his boots. "Are we going somewhere?" He asked mildly.

"Just get dressed Eragon. There are enough rumours about us as is; did you know that we're meant to have a legion of children hidden in the depths of the Hadarac Desert?"

Eragon yanked the blue vest over his head before locating a pair of socks that didn't have holes in them. "Fancy that." Standing on one foot as he pulled the socks and then his boots on, he glanced over at Arya, who was watching him in amusement, as if wondering how long before he lost his balance and fell over. "Do they know that is physically impossible? No one could have _that_ many children in the space of sixteen years." As they walked down the many corridors of the citadel, Eragon couldn't help but ask, "So you asking about me and Lëyri … it wasn't because you were jealous was it?"

"Of course not. Why would I be jealous?" She replied, maybe a little _too _quickly.

He grinned. "Just checking." Arya rolled her eyes but didn't comment; as they strode through the stronghold, various minor lords and ladies and other courtiers tried their uttermost to waylay and speak to them – just to be seen doing so. Arya had evidently had a lot of practise in how to avoid getting held up, because after they'd extracted themselves from the fourth cluster, she led him down what he realised was a servants' corridor away from the main halls.

"You've been back in civilisation for what, a week?" Eragon nodded with a frown, "I wish I had your excuse to avoid large crowds." He laughed. Following behind a patrol of Nighthawks going to relieve those on duty, Eragon and Arya emerged out in the gardens once again. Saphira and Fírnen were apparently snoozing in the mid-morning sun, but Eragon knew better; Glaedr and the few eldunarí that Eragon and Oromis had brought with them from Ellesméra were imparting various and many of the precious secrets known only to dragons.

At the back of the castle, by a large pond, some of their friends were sitting around a large table while the children played with sticks and bits of string in and around the pond. Nasuada and Orik were discussing state policy while Katrina was talking to Elain. Roran and Baldor had been forced into playing with the children as Ismira and Hope sat with their mothers. Even as Eragon and Arya joined them, a butler appeared to ask if the Queen would like lunch out in the open.

"Yes, why not? Seems a shame to waste such a fine day … ah there you two are!" She beamed at the two Riders as they sat down in empty seats. Blödhgarm suddenly slipped into the seat beside Eragon as Líften, Narí and Delsá took the chairs across from them.

"Lëyri has been demanding all kinds of outrageous food stuffs of the kitchens," Blödhgarm reported.

"And?" He was well aware that the others were half listening to their conversation.

Blödhgarm was prudent enough to get to his feet and drag Eragon to a spot out of earshot of the table. "Nothing; I just needed an excuse to talk to you in private and Lëyri is a good a topic as any for them to think we're discussing."

"What?"

"Rumours, Shadeslayer. Rumours … an army to rival Nasuada's and Orik's and Däthedr's is said to be marching through the Spine as we speak."

Eragon frowned. "How come the others haven't heard of this?"

"Word probably hasn't reached them yet; I only know because I took Delsá to the market. Did you know that you and Arya –"

"Have an army of children hidden in the desert, yes."

"– made quite an impression on the children there this morning." Blödhgarm looked at him, "Will you tell them?"

Eragon nodded. "I'll talk with Arya and Oromis after lunch first. I think we need a constant presence down in that market place, don't you?"

Blödhgarm nodded, "I can send Líften and Narí down there to mind a stall; if I speak with Däthedr I could probably have him supply some faelnirv for us to sell direct from Osilon."

"I thought elves did not put stock in money?"

"Not really – but in the wide world how will we survive? I believe Arya and Lady Gilá decided upon introducing small discs of gold and silver as a form of currency a few years after this treaty was signed. From what I gather, the rest of the races have taken also to this form of currency, and out of respect for us elves that invented it, they use the names 'kuldr' and 'arget' instead of 'gold' and 'silver'."

Eragon scratched his neck and nodded. "So it has become universal … Can you see to it do you think? Speak with Däthedr … the market seems to be a breeding ground for gossip and rumours and we need to know the instant it changes or arrives."

"I shall."

"This army, did the rumours say where it was heading?"

"North, but that could mean anything depending on how far south they started from. Do you want me to try and scry this army if I can?"

"If you can …" they returned to the table as servants laid dishes and plates along it for lunch. "Blödhgarm, why them?"

He chuckled, "We need something to keep them out of trouble; they upset Orrin at least five times in the space of an hour during your sparring with Arya this morning … oh, incidentally, we've got a wager going on by the way."

"Oh?"

"Yes. You see I am saying you'll be screwing Arya by the first snows. They – Adiré, Líften and Narí – say otherwise."

"That is a charming way to put it Blödhgarm." Eragon said as he took his seat, "I take it you used those exact words?"

"I'm counting on you, you realise that? I bet fifty kuldr on this."

Arya and the rest of the table chose that moment to involve themselves in their conversation. "Fifty gold? What's the bet?" Orik asked through a mouthful of chicken.

"Oh … just seeing how long it takes someone to do something," Blödhgarm said vaguely.

"Who and what?" Arya asked and Eragon looked at her for a moment.

"You don't want to know," he said. "Trust me; you do not want to know."

* * *

><p>AN : _ehehehe Blödhgarm get yo mind outta the gutter my friend ... anyone matching his wager though?_


	25. Brother Dear

**Brother Dear**

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><p>Routine was quickly established. Every morning, Eragon and Arya would rise with the sun and traipse outside to the square of grass where they would, in Eragon's case struggle, and Arya's flow, through the Rimgar. Then they would have a small rest before walking to the West Gate and running to the Ridge of Galdrí and back again. Once they'd returned to the gardens they would spar with one another. After a wash and breakfast they would join Oromis either in the library or the empty training hall to study history or magic depending on what mood the old Rider was in. They'd spend the afternoon in leisure and the evenings they would fly with their dragons and go through some aerial combat technics. Meanwhile, through Saphira, the eldunarí taught Fírnen what he needed in order to fight another dragon and Rider.<p>

Days blurred together to the point that it shocked Eragon to learn he'd been in Ilirea for over two months. Perhaps the only memorable event in that time was Lëyri going into labour during the middle of dinner on the evening before Orik, Orrin and Däthedr were due to return to their own kingdoms. Surprisingly, Arya had assisted Delsá in delivering the child; a healthy young boy with pointed ears and slanted brows. Adiré had then announced quite firmly that, providing Lëyri had no issue with it, he would help her raise the child as his son.

Late that night, Eragon had slipped through the corridors and crept into Lëyri's small room. Not wanting to alert her to his presence, he whispered, "slytha" and sent her into an enchanted sleep. In all fairness, she could probably do with the uninterrupted rest. She had named the boy Tyander; and he was awake in the crib, seemingly fascinated by the moonlight shining in through the curtains.

_What are you doing?_ Saphira asked. Eragon ignored her; he gently lifted the baby into his arms and sat himself on a low sofa by the empty fireplace. The baby gurgled and reached up a tiny fist to Eragon. _Little one …_

He didn't know how long he sat there and when Arya sat down beside him he jumped, and the baby began to cry. She took Tyander from him and settled him with ease. "Shall I put him to bed?" she asked and Eragon nodded. He didn't need to ask why or how she was there; the answer had already presented itself in his mind as Saphira responded to his unspoken and half thought question. Eragon got slowly to his feet and joined Arya by the crib.

"I was going to be his father," he whispered.

Arya slipped her fingers through his, "I know." Eragon let her lead him from the room, pausing long enough to wake Lëyri from her enchanted sleep, and back down the corridors to the top of the citadel where the Riders' Rooms were situated. At his door they stopped, Eragon not realising he'd left it wide open; it was empty and uninviting for Saphira lay curled with Fírnen in the cleared space in Arya's rooms. Still with her fingers through his, Arya closed his door and pulled him along to corridor to her own.

_Do not dwell on what cannot be_, the large emerald dragon told him gently as they stepped inside the room.

Eragon went to his dragon as she lifted her head. _Little one …_ he ducked under her wing and stayed there with no intention of leaving. Saphira lifted her wing again and Eragon saw the green hide of Fírnen as he shifted around, dropping his wing so that he and Saphira created a large tent between their bodies. Arya slipped under her dragon's wing and settled beside Eragon, once again slipping her fingers through his as she kissed his cheek; it was no act of love, rather a reassurance that he wasn't as alone as he felt.

Near enough two months had passed since that night and Eragon had devoted all his energies into, as Arya had suggested, moving on rather than lingering on something he couldn't change. Oromis seemed pleased with the speed and advancement that his two pupils were making; although that may have been because Arya had agreed to help Eragon fill the gaps in his basic knowledge of magic and lore, while he told her many of the tedious rules and codes that a Rider was expected to live by, along with the technicalities of what was involved in a 'parlay' and so forth. The dragons were advancing also – Fírnen now able to best Saphira at times to the point that he and Arya had become formidable opponents to Eragon and Saphira; which was good because they could then push each other to try harder and get better.

One afternoon, Eragon and Arya were sitting by the banks of the Ramr River while Roran's twins – Garrow and Cadoc – played with Blödhgarm at the water's edge. For some unfathomable reason, Eragon had been tasked with minding the boys while Roran and Katrina attended the rehearsal for their daughter's wedding to Prince Ajihad. It had been Blödhgarm who'd suggested they take a trip to the river and Arya had suggested they take a picnic with them. At the look on Eragon's face Arya and Blödhgarm had then decided to accompany him in case the twins lost him. Saphira and Fírnen were lounging a together on a low hill while Garrow and Cadoc decided to battle Blödhgarm with sticks they'd found.

"You'll be mentioning this to Delsá won't you?" Eragon asked after a while.

"Mentioning what?" Eragon nodded to the sounds of laughter at the river's edge. "That Blödhgarm took over from you when the twins tired you out? I think Katrina and Roran would find more amusement than Delsá."

Eragon shook his head and laid back on the grass. "I meant –"

"I know what you meant." Arya's voice was heavy with amusement. "But my point is valid; surely two eight-year old boys are not enough to tire you out?"

"Don't _they_ get tired?" he demanded.

"Children have an uncanny ability to endless energy … they'll go on all day if you let them. It's when they stop that they start to grow tired."

Before he got the chance to reply, a mind he recognised as Oromis's touched Eragon's. _Katrina would like her sons back now, if that's not too much trouble; apparently it is time for dinner._

_I'll send them back with Blödhgarm._

_Oh … I see. You want to spend time alone with your istalrí do you? Fair enough._ Oromis was gone before Eragon got a chance to protest. Shaking his head he sat up, muttering a curse under his breath.

"What is it?" Arya asked.

"Nothing – Oromis just being … well, Oromis." He raised his voice and hailed Blödhgarm over towards them. "Can you take the twins back? Oromis just contacted me to say that it's their dinner time."

"Of course … shall I tell the guards to leave the gates open? Or will you two be scaling the walls?"

Arya frowned, "Fírnen and Saphira are –" she swore. "Aren't there."

"We won't be far behind you," Eragon told his friend, just as put out as Arya that he hadn't noticed his dragon uping and leaving without letting him know. Blödhgarm nodded and returned to the river where he had a hard time in herding the boys in the general direction of Ilirea. Eragon lay back down on the grass and looked up at the sky; he hadn't realised how late it was.

After a moment Arya laid back beside him. "So tell me, now you have me alone, what is the reason we are not returning to Ilirea with Blödhgarm, Garrow and Cadoc?"

Eragon rolled onto his side, "I didn't realise that I had to have a reason in order to want to spend some time with you."

"You don't," she agreed, "I was just wondering if you did." Her words surprised him, but not as much as the meaning behind them did. He proceeded with caution, testing the waters.

"And if I did have a reason," he asked, brushing her fingers with his, "would that be a problem?" He dared look up when she didn't immediately respond and found Arya was gazing up at the sky. She must have sensed his eyes on her because she dropped her gaze and met his eyes with her own.

"What sorts of reasons could or would there be?" Her voice was soft and gentle.

Eragon closed his eyes and returned his attention to their now intertwined fingers. It was strange to be speaking to her of such a topic – even if it was obscurely. Years ago he would've given anything for the chance to be in this position. Now that he was, he realised how much the next step forward scared him; he did not want to ruin what they had … and Eragon was sure Arya didn't either. His feelings towards her were many and varied but they did all come down to one simple fact that Blödhgarm had long ago sussed out during the war; a fact that Eragon was, for want of a better word, ignoring.

"Well …" he cleared his throat, "small reasons … and – um … maybe some bigger reasons too perhaps … if – if you wanted that is …"

"They'd have to be good reasons."

"Naturally."

A hand on his cheek made him look back at her; "You need a shave," she murmured, her fingers brushing over the stubble on his cheeks.

"I was thinking of growing a beard," he half mused, rubbing his face with his free hand as he rolled onto his back again. He still had his fingers laced with her own.

"No."

"No?"

"No."

Eragon turned his head to look at her, narrowing his eyes as if trying to determine if she was serious or not. He blinked and sighed; "Saphira said no too." Arya laughed lightly, rolling onto her own back as her mirth echoed around them.

"You will be the death of me, Eragon Shadeslayer."

"Probably," he agreed. "That is if you're not the death of me first."

When he looked back at her, he was pleased to see the faintest traces of a smile on her lips and he chuckled to himself as he sat up. "We really need to give the dragons some rules." Arya murmured then, "Otherwise we'll find ourselves in a situation and we'll turn around to find they aren't where we need them to be."

"Rather you than me," he grinned.

Arya rolled her eyes, before springing lightly to her feet. She tugged at his arm, "Come on; if we stay out here much longer you'll start complaining you're hungry." Arya tugged at his arm again and he got to his feet; it was less than a mile to the city so they walked back rather than run. Arya let her hand drop from his only when they came in sight of the gates … and even that was probably so as to avoid any substantial rumours evolving.

As per usual, they were waylaid as they strode through the market to the citadel. It was the most direct way to the castle from any of the gates, since the market was the very heart of the city, but it'd probably be just as quick to weave through the side streets to avoid the delays. Eragon had figured out a pattern; the wives and daughters generally sought out Arya for advice, while the husbands and grandfathers and sons all bombarded him. The children were less picky; they wanted stories and would ask either himself or Arya. So long as they got an answer they were happy.

Eragon and Arya made it to the citadel in time to attach themselves to the back of the small crowd of Nasuada's closest friends as they headed into the informal dining room for dinner. Saphira and Fírnen had already made themselves comfortable at either ends of the table.

_And where did you disappear off to?_ Eragon asked.

_Nowhere._

_Nowhere? Well it must be an amazing place, this 'Nowhere'._

Saphira snorted_. And would you have gotten Arya's permission to court her if we were there? No. So stop being so –_

_That isn't what she meant._ Eragon could sense Saphira's confusion and sighed. He thought about it – finding it difficult to put into words the fact that he and Arya were simply … testing the waters … _I enjoy her company and being with her; whether or not I love her is irrelevant because she knows no more than I do. Maybe we're fools trying hard not to see the truth, but then so what? Can we not discover that by ourselves or do you and Fírnen have to involve yourselves despite the fact that we have given you two the privacy you deserve? Our conversation implied no more than the agreement that we wouldn't mind spending some more time together._ Eragon watched Saphira for a moment. _At least _we_ won't get up and leave without any warning beforehand._

The dragon looked at him with one sparkling eye before ruffling his hair with a puff. _We should've told you we'd gone. I am sorry._

_You are forgiven,_ Eragon told her as he placed a hand on her snout. _Just let me know next time – what if something happens and I need you, but you haven't told me you've gone?_

_I think you are capable by now to deal with most things on your own … except perhaps small children. You need to be supervised with small children._

_And why is that?_

_Because you act like a child yourself when with them … will you mention this development to Blödhgarm?_

_What development? _Saphira gave him the dragon equivalent of a raised eyebrow. _He's the one that made the extortionate gamble not me._

Eragon had just taken his seat beside his cousin when Oromis reached for his mind for the second time that evening. _Library. Now._ The old Rider's voice seemed tense and the emotions and feel of his mind was that of one preparing for danger. He got abruptly to his feet, drawing all eyes and attention to him at once.

Speaking to Arya he said, "Oromis need us in the library."

"Now?"

Eragon nodded, "Please don't wait; I get the feeling this will take a while." _Are you coming?_

_We'll stay here; they'll realise something is wrong if we all go._

Arya laid a hand on Firnen's neck as she passed him and together she and Eragon left the room, weaving their way through the corridors to the library. "What did he want?"

Eragon scratched the back of his neck. "He didn't say anything other than 'library' and 'now' but I got the impression it was important … and that something might be wrong."

Five minutes later they were pushing their way into the vast library below the Riders' Rooms; Oromis was leaning over his favourite desk at the far back corner beside a tall window overlooking the northern plains. "You're here. Good." He had a piece of torn paper.

"What's the matter?" Arya asked.

Oromis wordlessly handed her the paper. Her eyes narrowed as she looked at it and Eragon watched as alarm spread across her suddenly pale face. "We have to warn them."

"I already have; Däthedr's mustering his forces as we speak. They'll get there in a day and a half."

"Sorry – what?"

Arya handed him the bit of paper and Eragon read:

_Rider Arya – or is it Queen still? – my Brother Dear never told me how splendid these elven cities of yours were. Shame I have to burn Osilon to the ground, but that can't be helped now can it? How long do you think it'll take Thorn and I to destroy it … well I'm giving it a week's thought at least. Don't worry, I'll keep tight hold of Yerzogr's leash; we wouldn't want another mess like Leavall would we? Brayan sends his regards, Murtagh._

He crumpled the sheet of paper with Murtagh's note on it in his fist and hurled it across the room with as much force as he could muster. Eragon sensed Saphira's own wrath through their link as he began to pace. He'd taken to pacing a lot recently. "You've already informed Däthedr?" Eragon asked.

"Yes. Just as soon as I finished reading it; then I contacted you." Oromis looked at him, as if waiting for him to speak and Eragon belatedly remembered that any action on the part of the Riders had to be authorised and decided by himself.

_Lord bloody Rider indeed._ "How far is it to Osilon from here? Not as far as Ellesméra I hope."

"Three days, providing there's no headwind." Oromis replied just as Arya said;

"Fírnen can make it in two."

"Fine. We leave within the hour." _Ebrithil?_

_Bromsson?_ Glaedr replied, although he'd directed his words to Oromis.

_Are they ready?_

_No less than you are._

* * *

><p>AN : _dun dun duuuuun, now it gettin' serious ..._


	26. So Afraid

**So Afraid**

* * *

><p>Speed was vital and Fírnen had already left Saphira far behind as he sped through the air as fast as he could in order to reach Osilon before Murtagh began to destroy it. Eragon shifted in the saddle behind her; it felt strange for she had always been the passenger during the times she'd flown Saphira during the war, yet now it was Eragon's turn. While the Riders and Blödhgarm had been scrambling about, packing their things and raiding the armoury for chainmail shirts and shields and helmets, the two dragons and the eldunarí had decided that Fírnen – being the faster flyer – would go ahead with Arya and Eragon so as to get there as soon as they possibly could. Saphira, Blödhgarm and Oromis would arrive as soon as she could with the eldunarí save for Umaroth, who had elected to travel with Eragon.<p>

From what she had gathered, the old eldunarí had been in Blödhgarm's possession since Eragon's dream; the elf had been sent back to Alagaësia to gather news and report to Eragon the state of the mainland, only he'd gotten side tracked in Ceris with Delsá. Much to Eragon's constant amusement since he never passed up an opportunity to tease Blödhgarm about it. Arya was pleased that Blödhgarm and Eragon had become firm friends; the fact that her mother had named the elf Eragon's skölir edoc'sil – his unconquerable shield – had come a surprise to Arya, she hadn't realised Islanzadí had taken such steps in protecting Eragon and Saphira during the war. But she was glad that they were friends rather than just comrades.

_Yes, but she recognised how important keeping him alive was – and that you'd be distraught should he die. You know, your mother probably spent the last few months of that war tearing her hair out over the fact that you were being so utterly oblivious to the truth._

_I don't know what you are talking about._ Arya replied stiffly to Fírnen.

Instead of answering, he threw her own memories back at her of earlier that evening when she and Eragon had talked by the river.

_All I did was –_

_Was tell him that you wouldn't mind if he actively went out of his way to give you complements and small meaningless gifts._

_I thought this was what you wanted?_

He snorted and climbed higher above the clouds. _What I want is irrelevant. If you want him then tell him – I don't understand why you two-legged-creatures have to over complicate everything all the time. He wants you and you want him; what's so difficult about that? If you're not sure about it then why go ahead and imply to him that you are?_

_He's no more certain than I am._ Rather than replying, Fírnen sent her his confusion. _We're …_ Arya searched for the right way to explain to him. _I don't want to accidently ruin the friendship we share, and neither does he; it is one thing to know you could be with someone and to want to be with someone, but actually doing that is something else entirely. I don't know what I want Fírnen – as you well know. Eragon is just as lost and uncertain as I am. All I've told him is that I am not opposed to the thought of us spending more time together._

_Alone._

_Yes alone. Is there a problem with that?_

Fírnen let out a huff, smoke curling from his nostrils only to get whipped behind him by the wind as they raced through the sky. Eragon had uttered a spell that diverted the oncoming air to either sides, thus protecting them from the chill. _We should be there by morning the day after tomorrow._

_I thought it would take half a day longer?_ Arya asked, grateful that Fírnen had chosen to let go the topic of Eragon.

_This tail wind is carrying me further than I could fly alone. Let Eragon know will you?_

_You can tell him just as easily as I could._ Arya listened as Fírnen reached out to Eragon and repeated what he'd just told Arya. Through Eragon, they could feel the mind of the eldunarí Umaroth as he provided Eragon with a near-constant stream of advice and suggestions for the upcoming battle.

_Which'll mean we arrive a day before Saphira – less if she manages to catch up with this tail wind of yours. _Eragon murmured, before returning to the conversation with the eldunarí. Arya didn't mind all that much since it was in effect rather difficult to hold a civilized conversation whilst flying through the air with the wind roaring beside them and the vibrations of Fírnen's wings flapping in the air. She watched the clouds sweep past them in tattered wisps while the ground far below sped past in a blur of browns and greens and the occasional smudge of blue.

By mid-afternoon the next day Du Weldenvarden was in sight. Fírnen glided to a low rise and settled down upon the earth, causing a shudder to tremble through the ground as his massive weight dropped out of the sky. He paused for a moment or two before then proceeding to walk towards the forest and thus enter the elven kingdom on foot since the wards protecting the forest prevented anyone or anything from entering via magical means. As they slipped between the trunks of the trees – the western edge complied more of oaks and maples and cedar trees rather than the pines that made up the heart of the forest and Ellesméra – a hush fell over them and blanketed the surrounding into a watchful presence that made the hairs on the back of Arya's neck rise and a shiver run down her spine.

"The forest is threatened," Arya murmured to Eragon. "Can you not feel it?"

"It's unnerving," he replied. Arya twisted in the saddle to face him and caught him glancing around at the trees and foliage apprehensively, as if expecting the trees to wrench him out of the saddle and strangle him with their roots and branches. "Reminds me of when Saphira and I woke the Meona Tree …"

Arya shook her head in amusement, facing the front. "Let's get back into the sky Fírnen," she told her dragon, patting him gently on the neck, "before Eragon wets himself."

"Hey!" He swatted her on the arm and she couldn't help but laugh as he sat in a bruised silence behind her. Fírnen chuckled deep in his throat and hummed in the back of Arya's mind as he returned once more to the realm of clouds and birds and dragons.

True to Fírnen's prediction they arrived in Osilon early the following morning. As Fírnen landed in the midst of the city square, an elf came hurrying out of the nearest building – the residence of the city's authority; Lord Tarthis – and bowed awkwardly as Arya and Eragon dismounted. "Lord Rider," the elf said breathlessly, addressing Eragon first after the traditional and tedious greetings had been uttered. "You are most welcome … forgive me that no one of higher status could welcome you but Lord Tarthis is currently not within the city."

Arya held her tongue as the elf seemingly forgot that she and Fírnen were present. _You wouldn't have thought that a few months back I was his queen._ Arya thought quietly, _now I don't exist, not when the _Lord Rider_ is with me._

The eldunarí Umaroth brushed against her mind at that point; _He's only Lord Rider out of respect for the deeds he has accomplished during the war. Do not take it personally little one – 'twas always the way when my Rider and I would arrive with other Riders; they would cease to exist whilst we were in the same room as they. You think he likes all this attention?_

_I never suggested that he did._

_You are a Rider,_ Umaroth told her gently, _and you chose to forgo your duty as Queen in order to be a Rider. The elves are therefore respecting your decision and treating you accordingly; that means ignoring you when a Rider of more seniority is present._ Arya didn't argue with the eldunarí and instead focused upon what the elf was saying to Eragon.

"… and they left yesterday afternoon to intercept the approaching army."

"I see … do you have any idea where they could be?"

The elf thought about it, "I'd try the Barren Field if I were you; 'tis perhaps the only appropriate place nearby for two opposing armies to meet. It is roughly five miles due south of the city."

Arya frowned with confusion as Eragon asked the question she, Fírnen and Umaroth were wondering; "The Barren Field?"

The elf coughed nervously and glanced for the first time at Arya. "Arya Dröttningu of Ellesméra," he bowed then. It seemed Oromis was right when he'd told her she'd always be Arya Dröttningu, though she suspected the fact her title remained was more because the elves respected Islanzadí and Evander as the great people they'd been and thus wanted to honour their former rulers by addressing Arya forevermore as 'princess'. The elf shifted uncomfortably, "Um … well an expanse of our forest was burned to the ground around the time when … when Arya Dröttningu was captured by the Empire."

_Fire. No matter where she ran the forest continued to burn until it hemmed her in a tight ring, trapping her and thwarting her attempts to get away. Any hope she'd had of escaping with her life and the egg vanished as she realised that the Shade had planned this to the detail; he'd had precise accurate information about her whereabouts and her movements and so forth. Someone had betrayed her to him and now the Empire would reclaim their one last hope for a better life and a better world. Urgals jumped out at her and she reacted with instinct; cutting them down before they could take the egg from her – no matter what happened she would not let the egg fall back into Galbatorix's hands … a desperate and dangerous plan began to form in her mind; a last hope to getting and keeping the egg far from the reach of Galbatorix and his pet Shade. Brom._

"The fire was enchanted and it took all our strength and cunning to contain it. All we could do was let it burn itself out and hope that it would not break the wards we placed around it to keep the flames from spreading. It was when we were inspecting the damage that Lord Tarthis and his men discovered the slain Urgals and the bodies of Fäolin and Glenwing and no sign of either the egg or of Arya Dröttningu."

Not at all caring if it appeared rude, Arya swiftly clambered back into Fírnen's saddle before the occupants of Osilon witnessed her dissolving into a puddle of terror and panic. She shook and struggled to breath and gasped for breath though it seemed not to exist. It felt like she was drowning as memories and spiteful haunts of what was continued to plague her mind as she succumbed to the anxiety as it claimed her … convinced her she was running for her life once more through the burning forest as Durza stood watching and laughing … she'd forgot about everything other than the need to get away though she couldn't …

Then she felt a shudder writhe through her being, commanding her to open her eyes and to return to reality. She had little choice but to obey and it took a moment for her eyes to adjust and focus on what she was seeing. Eragon and Fírnen were peering over her, concern radiated through the bond she shared with Fírnen and was etched upon Eragon's face. After a moment comprehension dawned on her and Arya sighed, closing her eyes and curling into a ball in an attempt to shut out the world for a moment.

Eragon was talking to Fírnen and Umaroth but Arya didn't care to try and work out what about. Then she felt herself being lifted off the damp earth of the forest floor and placed in the saddle on her dragon's back. A second later Eragon settled behind her and wrapped his left arm around her waist and took firm hold of the saddle pommel with his right hand just as Fírnen lifted off the ground and cleared the tops of the forest. He glided gently on updrafts, keeping a lookout on the ground for any hint as to where Däthedr was and could be with his army.

Arya sighed and let her head fall back against Eragon's chest. "Now all of Osilon thinks I'm on the verge of falling apart."

"No," Eragon disagreed. "You had the foresight enough to get on Fírnen's back and he managed to clear the edge of the city before you fell out of the saddle. Thankfully he was walking rather than flying. I arrived about five minutes ago and managed to wake you." He gave her a small smile. "You have nothing to be ashamed about."

Arya shook her head. "Why am I so weak?" she asked him in a hoarse voice. "Why can't I hear mention of Durza or Gil'ead or my capture and not start to fall apart from within? Why must I panic and trembled in fear despite knowing it is all over and that I am safe? Why am I so afraid?" Then in a small voice Arya said, "It's getting worse."

Eragon didn't speak for a while. "Fear keeps us alive … it keeps us alert and it keeps us aware of danger and stops us from growing complacent. To fear is to be alive and to be alive is to fear … But as to why," he sighed, "you ignored it Arya. You woke in Tronjheim and instead of dealing and coping with all you'd gone through, you got up and hours later strode into battle. That can't have been good for you …"

"But I –" Arya closed her eyes. "I couldn't fall apart," she whispered. "And I know I should've let myself … but I couldn't. There wasn't time."

Eragon involuntarily tightened his arm around her waist, moving his right hand from the pommel of the saddle so that he could hold her all the better with both arms around her. "I know," he murmured low in her ear, "and I'm sorry. Sorry I needed you so much." Arya slipped her fingers through the gaps between his own and watched as the sun continued to rise to their left over the tops of the forest, bathing the tips of the trees in a pale gold light.

"I'm glad," Arya said after a while. "Glad that you needed me so much; if you had not then what would've become of me? Would I have even at all recovered from it all?"

"Imprisonment and torture isn't something you can just recover from Arya. Nor is it something you can move on and forget ever happened to you."

In a small voice Arya asked; "How would you know?" Then she wished she'd not spoken because he grew tense. "I did not mean it like that," she hurried, twisting so she could glimpse his expression.

His lips twitched in a smile. "I know … though you are right; how would I know?"

"You suffered more than I," Arya told him. "You suffered Durza's curse – and you did not give in despite the extremity of it. I … I feared it would kill you."

Eragon shook his head. "It would not have killed me – or so Oromis said at the time." He'd been looking determinedly ahead and until that point not looked at her; when he did she caught in his eyes a hollow reflection of the look his eyes had adopted during those few weeks before the Agaetí Blödhren. When he blinked it was gone and he once more was the man she remembered from the war, only a little older and a little wiser. She looked him in the eye, noticing that the brown of his eyes was now ringed strangely with a deep blue – as if the bond with Saphira had decided to alter his eye colour because of the changes already wrought upon Eragon's body as a result of the Blood-Oath Celebration. Arya decided she liked it.

Fírnen was amused and it swept through their bond as Arya wondered what her dragon was finding so entertaining. Until she realised that she had not looked away from Eragon's eyes – and he had not looked away from hers – for nearing two minutes. A wry grin, lingering between a smile and a smirk, lightened his lips and she felt her heart stutter and splutter as she suddenly forgot how to breathe. If he knew what that look did to her … almost without knowing it, a somewhat coy and amused smile had graced her own and Arya watched as Eragon's eyes flickered towards her lips and then back up to her eyes again. Though not for long because he seemed unable to not gaze at the way her lips had parted and how they were creeping closer to his own …

"_Wyrda!"_

Arya jolted, and Eragon jumped as the white raven, Blagden, swept between them and darted around their heads, purposefully flying in Fírnen's way. Though her dragon was positively glowing with glee at what had almost happened – or rather what had not happened – irritation reigned with the white raven's sudden appearance. Fírnen didn't like Blagden, though he'd been forbidden from trying to eat or harm the bird because Arya had drilled it into him from the moment he'd hatched.

_Don't even think about it._

_Seriously?_ Fírnen complained as the raven perched on his head and pecked cheekily at the spot between his eyes.

_Blagden saved my father's life._

_So you keep telling me … but think what you and Eragon would be doing right now if you'd let me eat this irritating excuse for a bird when I was a hatchling._

_Shut up!_

"Well," Eragon said after a moment in a falsely cheery voice, "I see why the elves called this part the Barren Field."

Arya glanced over Fírnen's shoulder and spotted a roughly irregular circle about a league across where nothing but scraggily brush and ashen skeletons of trees stood. Däthedr's army was camped at the northern edge of the clearing where an outcropping of rock stood over twenty feet high above the ground. The very same formation that Arya had fled to only to have Durza drop from the top of it and stand in her way.

"You okay?" Eragon asked, concern in his voice.

Arya looked at the sight of her capture and closed her eyes. "That remains to be seen."

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><p>AN : _sorry it took so long ... but hey, I gave you an E&A moment ... kinda ... _


	27. Fighting A Forest

**Fighting a Forest**

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><p>Arya was standing atop an outcropping of rock twenty feet high as Däthedr's army began assembling upon the plain before her. A league or so in the distance, she could see the enemy assembling also and shouts were echoing across the Field to her, though they made little sense for the distance distorted the words beyond coherence. She again remembered the shock and surprise on Murtagh's face when Eragon and Oromis lowered their hoods as they went to exchange pleasantries and threats the previous afternoon. What made the moment all the sweeter what how <em>she<em> had failed to be surprised when Morzan came to be standing at his son's side; Murtagh had evidently wanted to scare her with the impossible – yet due to Eragon's cunning, they had been able to turn the tables and force his confidence to waver.

Even Morzan's mismatched eyes had gone a little wild as the face of his former master was revealed before his eyes. "You were a terrible student, Morzan." Oromis had said as he'd straightened his robe. "And Brom said you died terribly also … shame – you had so much potential." And because of the rules Eragon had dully recited to her some weeks back; if Morzan drew his sword then he'd forfeit his life and his companions would have no choice but to surrender.

Fírnen trudged up behind her. _It itches._

_I'm not letting you into battle without armour Fírnen._ Some years back Rhunön had grown bored and so decided to take on the project of forging the great emerald dragon some armour. Däthedr had had the foresight to bring it with him from Ellesméra and after much arguing and persuasion, Fírnen finally relented into wearing it. She turned to face him.

_How do I look?_ He asked sheepishly.

She smiled. _Fierce enough and terrifying enough to strike horror into every enemy's heart._

He hummed deeply in the back of her mind in satisfaction as Saphira settled beside him. Because she was now so big – bigger by far that Fírnen even – there was no complete set of armour big enough to encase her. She wore scraps of incomplete, mismatched and recovered sets though she herself was not clad in enough to make up an entire set. The elves had found a dwarven-made breastplate and a few elven-made pieces that made up the over-lapping plates designed to protect her neck and tail. There was nothing to cover her back or her legs and she did have, at least the moulded helm-like plate covering the top of her head leaving – even as it did with Fírnen – her jaw free to snap and snarl and do whatever else.

Arya laid a hand on Saphira's neck as Eragon struggled over the top of the rock. He had to struggle because he carried a sack full on his back of what Arya realised was more armour; she left Saphira's side and made to aid him in his efforts but by the time she reached him, he'd managed to clamber safely onto the top of the outcropping. With a small smile, he dropped the sack at their feet and leant against Saphira's scaly leg. "You'll be needing that."

"Not all of it for me I hope; I'd not be able to walk – much less fight."

He chuckled. "Half is for me."

"I knew that."

Eragon laughed again. Arya knelt and sorted through the sack of armour, and frowned for it was distinctly elven-made and not the work of the humans whose armour they'd taken from Nasuada's armoury. "This is not what we bought with us."

"No." Eragon agreed. "The king decided to … how did he put it? Clad us in attire 'fit for the heroes of war' that we are." He fell silent for a moment and Arya felt his gaze upon her as she found the smaller of the two chain-mail shirts; she wasn't entirely sure if it made her uncomfortable or not, or if it made her feel slightly safer knowing he was watching her back as intently as he was. "Though he did not find enough armour to properly protect Saphira … but then she does now wear Glaedr's helm plate – the one he wore during the Siege of Cithrí."

Arya looked back up at the sapphire dragon. "You are truly a might to be frightened of, Saphira. All that is needed is for your enemies to hear your name and see you coming before they turn tail and run in fear." _Oh stop it,_ she sighed to Fírnen, _she's not more immune to flattery than you are._ Both dragons huffed, one in gratification and one in annoyance.

Unbuckling her belt and letting the weight of her sword drag the leather out of her hands and to the floor, Arya donned the finely made chainmail shirt. The links were small and glistened coldly in the light of the dawning sun to their left; despite the thick shirt with the high collar to stop the mail from chafing at her neck, the chill of the metal seeped through the fabric and caused her to shiver. Unlike the chainmail shirt she'd favoured in the war, this one had full length sleeves that were a row or two of links too long for her arms. Instead of pulling on the steel-lined gauntlets provided, Arya slipped her hands into a pair of tough leather gloves as she buckled her belt back in place.

Straightening up, Arya turned to find Eragon had not moved. "Are you now so fearsome and powerful that you need not wear armour into battle?"

He chuckled and rolled his eyes but nonetheless moved towards the pile of metal Arya had left for him. She was about to climb into Fírnen's saddle when Eragon gave out a grunt and a yell; Arya turned to find he was struggling to yank his head through the gap where his arm was supposed to go. _Go on,_ Fírnen smirked, _you know you want to help him._

Ignoring her insufferable dragon as he nipped the end of Saphira's tail and she gave him a low growl, Arya helped Eragon into his armour. His chainmail shirt was actually a chainmail vest for the elves had decided he was to march into battle wearing a mixture of plated armour and the more common chainmail. Finely decorated plates were buckled across his upper chest, back and across his shoulders – the point being to better guard against a direct blow to the heart – while his right arm was encased in equally eloquent steel. Eragon pulled on the fancy steel gauntlets and twisted his belt around so Brisingr sat more comfortably on his hip.

"I don't see the point in all this," he said, looking at his distorted reflection in Fírnen's shiny breast plate.

Arya tilted her head. "I think it's just to make you look more impressive," she shrugged, not about to tell him that he did, indeed, look very impressive in his new armour; Fírnen would faint. The mail he wore had been tainted black and the plates inlaid with swirling patterns of white and sapphire enamel. The expression of distaste and uncomfortableness he wore on his face ruined the effect somewhat though.

Blödhgarm made it over the top of the outcropping then; all the furry elf had decided to don for battle was a new pair of dark breeches (Eragon told her that after an unfortunately windy incident aboard the ship as they left Alagaësia had convinced the elf to exchange his loin cloth for something less likely to betray him). A sword was strapped across his back and he had two shield and two helmets with him, which he promptly gave over to Eragon and Arya. "Oromis is riding with the king – though Oromis has hinted he'll make a beeline for Morzan if he spots him at all."

Eragon nodded and grunted with discomfort as Blödhgarm strapped the shield to his left arm – the one not encased in all that extra steel. "Saphira and Fírnen are going to wait up here until after Thorn and Nexx join in the carnage," Eragon told Blödhgarm. "There isn't enough room for a full out aerial combat between four dragons and Murtagh knows that; we'll be confined to the ground in this battle … which is both an advantage and a disadvantage.

"And you two?" Blödhgarm asked, "You're going to wait up here until something interrupts you again right?"

Arya found herself blushing furiously. Fírnen chuckled deep in his throat as she threw a spluttering look at Eragon, who was in the midst of what Arya knew to be a fake coughing fit. Blödhgarm smirked. _He told him!_ She fumed.

_Was it a secret?_ Saphira teased.

Eragon straightened up and gave his friend a death glare before saying; "Arya's going to ride with Tarthis while I command the final third of the army and you ride with me – since your oath won't let you be elsewhere."

"I see … only … why didn't you two wait until _after _you'd gotten down from this rock before putting on half your weight in metal?"

There was a rather pointed silence.

"Didn't think of that …"

Saphira flew the three of them down and swept back up to the rock where she and Fírnen settled down to wait until they were needed. Arya privately hoped that Thorn and Nexx would sit this battle out – she didn't want Fírnen in anymore danger. Blödhgarm bade her the usual 'luck be with you' before he and Eragon turned to head in the direction of the company they were to direct. Arya grabbed the other Rider's arm and held him back – Blödhgarm glanced over his shoulder and sent her another knowing smirk that made another flush rise to her cheeks.

"You told him?" she hissed.

He blinked several times and then coughed nervously as he looked anywhere but at her. "Um … it just … well I mean … we – er … won a barrel of dwarven mead in a game of dice and – well it would've been rude not to drink it … and um – well it …"

"Just slipped out?" Arya asked, half exasperated and half amused.

"Yeah … look I've got to go and …"

She nodded, "Of course. Can't keep the _Lord Rider_ from battle now can I?" Arya wasn't sure if she was being sarcastic or not. Eragon opened his mouth to say something but evidently changed his mind because he turned and headed off in the direction Blödhgarm had gone. Before he could move beyond earshot, she called out, "You won't do anything reckless will you?"

Eragon turned on his heel and looked back at her. A wry grin snuck across his face; "Me? Reckless? What do you take me for? A fool?"

"No. I take you for Brom's son!"

He laughed; "Then any reckless act of mine is not reckless; merely brilliant!"

But Arya wasn't going to let him go without some promise or reassurance that he'd exercise at least a _little_ caution. "Eragon – no death defying stunts of bravery … please … wiol pömnuria ilian."

"Wiol onr ilian," he promised, giving her a fluid bow.

Knowing that was the best she'd get, Arya watched him turned away again before she trudged across the camp to the eastern flank of the elven army where Lord Tarthis was awaiting her assistance. Technically, as Lord Rider, Eragon should be fighting with Däthedr – but Oromis wanted him to have to opportunity to command and lead a force of his own, and the king wasn't likely to be running headlong into the front line which was where Eragon preferred to fight from.

Weaving her way through the ranks of soldiers, Arya located Tarthis in the middle of a heated argument with his son. Hanging back, she watched as several oaths and curses were exchanged before the younger elf stormed back to the camp where he would no doubt spend the duration of the battle sulking. "I take it he wished only to stand at your side Tarthis?" Arya asked.

The elf lord closed his eyes and ran a hand over his face, "He was half crushed when the wall was bought down in our attack on Gil'ead," Tarthis explained, "and he's been unable to wield a sword since – though he insists on trying."

"Perhaps you should encourage him towards the art of spellweaving. He'd still be able to contribute to battle, but not from the front line."

Tarthis paused in the act of mounting the tall elven horse an archer held steady. "Perhaps, though the boy would rather swing a sword at an enemy than invade an enemy's mind …"

"Boy?" Arya questioned as she took the reins of the second steed. "Havis is at least half a century older than I am and you wouldn't dare call me child would you?"

Tarthis laughed amused, "In years yes; but in experience? No. The first time he left this forest was when your mother led us to war …" Arya swung into the saddle of the horse as Tarthis spoke to the captains, giving them their instructions for the upcoming battle. "We outnumber them three-to-one, but that does _not_ mean you can take chances alright? Dare devil stunts are for idiots; those stupid enough to think they're cleaver … and I don't want to command any idiots."

He clambered onto his horse and with Arya in tow, moved to the back of the ranks as they moved into place on the Field. _Stirring speech_, Fírnen noted mildly. The three dragons had agreed to remain in contact with one another throughout the battle so their Riders could know what happened across the conflict and exchange warnings and messages if need be. _Better than the one Eragon gave anyway; 'um yeah … don't die …'_

_Roran is the speech maker of the family._ Arya told him as a horn blasted and the army lurched forwards, marching in step as they strode across the Barren Field to where Murtagh's forces were camped. Where Murtagh had found such a large force, none of them knew, but the mysterious army rumoured to be marching north had appeared to be definitely not fictitious … unfortunately. _You don't move until _after_ Thorn and Nexx have both joined in, _Arya reminded her dragon – she had a vision of her getting into some kind of trouble and him leaping to her aid despite the orders to stay where he was.

The opposing army had also started marching and when both forces were little more than two hundred yards away, the horn blasted again. From the centre of the advancing line, someone broke into a run. Like a wave spreading or a tumbling rock down a mountainside, the army hurried to follow suit, bellowing like some huge monster as any remaining semblance of order shattered in the rush to embrace their foes. There must've been some tactical mind in Murtagh's army, for they halted their own advance and readied their pikes and spears for impact.

Everything seemed to slow down as sound was dulled and blended into one incoherent noise. Arya heard the thudding footfalls of the horses and saw the individual faces of those around her as she drew Támerlein from its sheath and tightened her grip on her shield. For the space of four loud heart beats that Arya swore echoed over the Field with unnatural clarity – she hadn't a clue whose heart it was pounding so steadily in her ears – everything was suspended and the whole word seemed to draw a huge breath in preparation …

_And again does life stand still to be determined by these few short moments._

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><p>AN : _classic movie moment there ... sorry I couldn't resist ...__  
><em>


	28. The Nightmare Army

**The Nightmare Army**

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><p><em>I<em>_nsanity._ The only word he had for it; insanity. The battle had dissolved into insanity the second they had collided with Murtagh's forces. Insanity because their enemy would not die. They weren't the Laughing Dead – no. These were corpses possessed with life enough to wield swords and axes and shields and they weren't just human … the corpses of dwarves and Urgals and elves and humans formed the bulk of Murtagh's army and it was insanity. The only way they would stop was if they were hacked apart so the soul had nothing left to hold onto. Insanity.

Eragon swept the head off one – an elf he thought, though it was hard to tell from the gruesome decay of the face – only to find that it kept on coming at him. "Brisingr!" his sword burst into flame and he swiftly hacked off legs and arms too before spinning to find the battle had swept a few feet away from him. Eragon took advantage of the lack of an enemy to regain his breath and his composure. The Laughing Dead – those men that could feel no pain – were, at least, still alive and were fairly easy to kill; but these were the dead. The dead of not only humans but Urgals and Kull and elves that could wrought twisted shadows of spells that none of the living could divert.

He remembered that shuddery image of rotting corpses roaming Dras Leona before he sealed shut the breach; he remembered wondering how many had slipped through between Murtagh casting Du Wydra Nángorörh and Eragon closing it. _An army, apparently_, Saphira remarked. _You need our help._

_No! Wait until Thorn and Nexx –_

_They won't move until we do; you know that! Not unless they start losing – which doesn't look likely any time soon!_

Eragon hung back and tried to survey what he could of the battle; if their own dead started getting up and battling them, Eragon thought, then even _he_ might run. _They have to be maintained by some form of spell,_ Umaroth told him, _the souls of the dead trapped in the bodies of the dead – but not necessarily the right body for the right soul._

_If I can kill the spell caster – _

_You can force Murtagh to commit his secondary force of fully alive men –_

_And restore the confidence of the elves …_ he left Saphira, Umaroth and Fírnen to search for the individual maintaining the spell and lurched into the fray with his sword blazing fire and his new armour splattered with gore and blood and the rotting ooze from the reanimated dead. He'd lost all sense of the glory won in battle after Farthen Dûr; he'd always thought life had a high value, but battle had taught him otherwise. Why was a life so valuable if it could be so easily stolen? What honour was there in dying when there was never any chance of living?

_Before his uncle, Garrow, was slain by the Ra'zac months earlier, the brutality that Eragon had witnessed between the humans, dwarves and Urgals would have destroyed him. Now it numbed him. He had realised, with Saphira's help, that the only way to stay rational amid such pain was to _do_ things. Beyond that, he no longer believed that life possessed inherent meaning – not after seeing men torn apart by the Kull, a race of giant Urgals, and the ground a bed of thrashing limbs and the dirt so wet with blood it soaked through the soles of his boots. If any honour existed in war, he concluded, it was in fighting to protect others from harm._

In fighting to protect others from harm.

Eragon shoved his shield into the face of a dead-Urgal and the creature toppled to the ground; it rolled to the side with speed the dead should not have before staggering to its feet and trundling off into the mayhem without a second glance at Eragon. Swinging Brisingr around, he severed the dead-human that had just been about to brain him and watched the thing fall to the floor, a sickly smell of rotting flesh filled the battlefield. Something crashed into his left side, hurtling him to the floor and he lost hold of his sword as he and his foe landed upon the limb strewn ground. A rabid looking dead-dwarf was foaming at the mouth as it clawed Eragon's face with its fingers; it was all he could do to keep his shield between him and his enemy. But the dead-dwarf was dense and the shield creaked and cracked as a great split ran from the top to the middle and from the bottom to the top; the whole thing threatened to shatter. For one gut wrenching moment, he had a sudden certainty that this was it.

Bards and minstrels would laugh themselves stupid through the tale: _And the great hero, that Eragon Shadeslayer Lord of the Riders, was chewed to death by a rabid dwarf!_

The dead-dwarf was suddenly yanked off him and tossed into the middle of a bunch of Murtagh's soldiers from nightmare and a furry hand was held out to Eragon in its place. Blödhgarm. Eragon grasped his friend's arm as the elf pulled him upright. "You dropped something." He held out a gore spattered Brisingr.

"Eka elrun ono," Blödhgarm touched the hilt of his sword to his brow and inclined his head. Eragon shook off what was left of his shield and gripped Brisingr tightly; his left arm was now vulnerable and likely to be chopped off in the next few minutes but the up side was he could now use both hands to wield his sword.

"Once more unto the breach?" his friend asked pleasantly. The elf was spattered with blood and muck – a rather wet and sticky looking patch of fur below his ribs on the right side of Blödhgarm's chest caught Eragon's eye. Noticing the direction of Eragon's gaze the elf said, "do not worry, 'tis nothing – shall we?" Nodding, they darted forwards and launched themselves at the nearest and thickest bunch of enemy fighters.

_Insanity. This … is … insanity! _As he and Blödhgarm fought through the battle, Eragon could see horror, revulsion and fear in the eyes of the elves they were supposedly fighting alongside. Any semblance of order had fizzled to nonexistence when the fact that they were battling their long dead comrades became clear. There were times Eragon could've sworn he recognised a mangled face as he cut down its owner – Blödhgarm gave a choked growl and became unusually restrained; Eragon wondered if he'd seen a face he knew on the dead they fought. Despite having the superior number, they were fast approaching defeat and that too was echoed knowingly in the eyes of the elves they passed by through the fight. After seeing the same hopeless acceptance in at least five other elves Eragon grew angry … and reckless.

_Enough._ Then he had an idea; catching Blödhgarm as he staggered and nearly collapsed to the floor, Eragon found the elf woman Urnär's mind and told her to sound the retreat. He could feel Saphira readying herself and telling Fírnen to stay put. As the four short blasts echoed over the Field, Eragon yelled at the elves nearest to pull back; hoisting a semi-conscious Blödhgarm over his shoulder and nearly collapsing from the weight, Eragon and the elves nearby sprinted back to the north edge of the Field. From Saphira's gaze he saw with satisfaction that the other two thirds were also running back. He hoped that Murtagh's army of the dead wouldn't be able to keep pace and when he – through Saphira – began to see a gap at least twenty feet wide and growing between the fasted dead-soldier and the slowest elf, he said, _Now Saphira!_

She leapt of the rock, her wings outstretched as she glided towards the fleeing elves. _Stay where you are and get Arya to start regrouping them all!_ Saphira snapped at Fírnen as she swooped over the heads of Däthedr's army, low enough to cause hair and starchy grass alike to ruffle in the downdraft of her wings. Eragon turned and watched as she reached Murtagh's Nightmare Army; opening her jaws she let loose an almighty roar accompanied by a tongue of flame flecked with sapphire. She circled the force, hemming them in and setting them all alight – not that they screamed much since they were already dead. Three times she swept over the enemy until she was certain that the threat had been reduced to nothing more than ash; what use did the dead have for wards of magic for protection?

As he'd expected, Thorn took instant advantage of Saphira's task. He came running out of the woods and launched himself skywards only to be knocked off course by Fírnen ramming into his unprotected side. Despite being told to stay put, Eragon was thankful for the green dragon; his act gave Saphira the chance to finish off roasting the dead-men and turn to meet Nexx head on. The four dragons had little room to manoeuvre in the air unless they decided to fly high above the treetops where their Riders would have difficulty in aiding them.

Eragon reached the remnants of the well organised elven army as they scrambled back into formation – though it seemed as if there were four different sets of instructions being issued all demanding different things. Shouldering his way through the crowd, Eragon found Arya and Oromis at the back, arguing as they knelt beside what seemed to be a fatly wounded Däthedr; the other elves of importance had all decided _they_ would take their fallen king's place. "Is he alright?" Eragon asked as he lowered blodhgarm to the floor.

"I don't know …" Oromis shook his head; clad in armour just as fine as Eragon and Arya's, it was just as filthy and gore spattered. Naegling was lying on the ground beside him. "We may lose him." Eragon swore and turned his attention to his friend.

"And Blödhgarm?"

Oromis turned his gaze upon the elf. "No better than the king … they need taking back to camp – maybe even to Osilon …"

"This battle is far from over." Eragon warned his master, who nodded and closed his eyes.

Arya got to her feet, she was looking up at the sky to where the four dragons snarled and fought and battled and clawed at each other. Eragon could tell she was worried sick for Fírnen – but from what he could see, and from what he gathered from Saphira, Fírnen was doing fine. Eragon got up and walked over to her, touching her shoulder lightly. "Umaroth and Glaedr are with them; Fírnen will be fine."

She didn't respond. Oromis was talking to the five remaining elves of the king's guard; two knelt and slung both Däthedr and Blödhgarm over a shoulder each before turning and trotting back to the camp. Eragon, with Arya at his heels, shouldered through the densely packed elves and located Tarthis and the other lords all arguing over who was now in charge.

"That would be me." Eragon told them, finally quenching the flames licking his blade. He turned to Tarthis and said, "The king asked for more soldiers from Kirtan did he not?" The elf lord nodded, "When do you estimate they'll arrive?"

The lord licked his lips and looked over to where the four dragons were wrestling among the burning corpses of the reanimated. "They were due to arrive yesterday, my lord …"

Eragon supposed he'd just have to get used to being called 'my lord' all the while. "Send scouts to find them – we need those reinforcements. Now!"

"Murtagh's moving his forces onto the Field as we speak," Lady Gilá warned as she rode over on a white mare. "I fear the reinforcements will get here too late."

Eragon turned to Arya, "Fly back to Osilon, get any idiot who can hold a sword or draw a bow and march them back here – and be quick about it."

She was already shaking her head; "Saphira cannot take on both Thorn and Nexx alone!"

_What makes you think I'll be alone?_

"Go!" Eragon urged her. He could tell she did not take kindly to being ordered about so, after being the one giving the commands for most of her life, but after a long hard glare at him – which he held and returned – she nodded her head once and turned on her heel. Eragon watched as Saphira lunged at Thorn as he made to take advantage of Fírnen's turned back; she bit into his neck and the red dragon howled and thrashed about as he tried to throw Saphira off him. She let go and whirled around to yank Nexx back, taking hold of her injured tail as the smaller dragon tried to slip past Saphira and run after Fírnen. Arya ran out to meet her dragon, leaping into the saddle even as he spread his wings to take off – he cleared the tops of the trees and speed back north.

Oromis came up to him, watching Arya and Fírnen retreating and turned a questioning gaze to Eragon. "They're going to get help." He nodded once in understanding; Eragon needed Arya out of the way because there was no way she would stand by and watch as he did what he was about to next. "Get everyone back in formation – and find me the best swordsman – or woman who's feeling suicidally brave."

Oromis nodded again, "As you wish," _Remember, a man is no more powerful than others believe him to be._ "Lord Tarthis is the best at swordplay – Blödhgarm is injured and you've sent Arya away … I shall see to this rabble of fear gripped fools." Eragon watched his master stride back through the army issuing commands and order reigned in his wake.

He turned to Lord Tarthis, who was watching him with narrowed eyes. "No battle has ever been won by one man," the lord told him.

Eragon laughed. "But I am not a man, Tarthis." Tarthis's narrowed eyes turned into a frown. "I am a Dragon Rider. Stand here with your kin if you wish it – I will not order you to walk forth with me, for it is highly probable that walking forward will result in certain death. There is no shame in saying you are afraid; bravery is a nice name for stupidity I suppose."

"They were wrong about you. The stories." Tarthis said then, and Eragon frowned. "They say you were a man of honour and a man of intellect and standing. The stories tell of how you were more than just a warrior – how you would help the weak and heal the sick. They say that you would question your orders and that you would never do something unless you believed there to be no better alternative. The stories tell of how you would defy your superiors when they were wrong and how you would prevent them from too much killing, saying that the enemy was not to be hated and that they had lives and families and those that loved them just as we do." Tarthis shook his head before he then spat at the ground by Eragon's feet. "Yet here you are, having just had your dragon roast alive all those men."

"Those men were already dead!"

"I bet you haven't even considered taking prisoners; you'll no doubt slit their throats yourself! You hate your enemy and you will do everything to destroy it won't you? Someone says go fight, there's the enemy, and you fight until you die. You're a true soldier aren't you?"

"A true soldier fights, not because he hates what's in front of him, but because he loves what is behind him." Eragon tightened his grip on Brisingr and started pacing forwards to where Saphira was struggling to contend with the attentions of both Nexx and Thorn. Tarthis's words troubled him, but he did not dwell overlong on them for there were more important matters to contend with – Saphira was more than capable of handling one dragon alone, and maybe if there was the space she'd cope against two, but the Barren Field was too contained a space.

Eragon watched as Saphira kicked Thorn in the head and the red dragon bellowed and staggered away, dazed. Nexx tried to clamber onto Saphira's back where she'd then be able to overpower Saphira with one simple bite at the back of her skull. Saphira didn't wait, she rolled over, and some of her spikes on her spine bit into the soft flesh of Nexx's belly. The small dragon roared in pain as Saphira completed her roll; before Nexx could regain her feet however, Eragon jerked his hand out with an unformed and incomplete idea in his mind, and a burst of sapphire energy erupted from the palm of his left hand. It condensed into a dense blot and caught Nexx on the side of her head. The violet dragon was sent tumbling across three hundred yards of sparse and toughened grass where the blot of energy fizzled out and set her wing alight.

The dragon began howling and running in endless circles as she tried to beat the flames out. The Urgal Rider, Yerzogr came hurtling out of the trees in a vain attempt to help her, though for all his spells of water and such he could not douse the flames. The dragon gave a shriek and crumpled to the floor where she whimpered and howled until suddenly there was nothing. With a bellow and a cry out unimaginable loss, Yerzogr wrenched his massive sword out of its sheath and tossed it aside before lowering his head and charging Eragon. Eragon jumped aside last minute, swinging Brisingr wildly at the Urgal's neck. His head went one way, the body another.

_How did you do that?_ Umaroth asked, astonished as Eragon glanced over at the still smouldering dragon.

_You tell me._

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><p>AN : _wow. Another chapter already? But the ultimate question is this; How _did_ he do that?_

_and '_Before his uncle...' is from page 2 of the hardback edition of Eldest, chapter Twin Disaster'.__


	29. The Many Adventures of Eragon the Idiot

**The Many Adventures of Eragon the Idiot**

There was no time to dwell on the strange new magic Eragon had just worked; Murtagh's second force was hurtling out of the trees straight at him. Thorn had retreated to the edge of the forest where Eragon spotted his half-brother and Morzan lingering, which at least left Saphira free to help Eragon out. It was strange; whilst in the middle of fighting Eragon's sense of self-preservation seemed almost non-existent, leading him into all sorts of reckless and frankly idiotic situations. The fact of the matter was that all he had time to think about stopping his enemy from winning whatever the cost.

He spotted Murtagh remaining by the trees rather than climbing into Thorn's saddle with his father; the injured red dragon took flight and narrowly avoided crashing into the tops of the pines as he emerged from the clearing. Swirling his sword round, Eragon caught one of Murtagh's soldiers in the throat and felled him with a quick blow to the side of the head with the pommel of his sword. Saphira was several feet away, snarling and swiping at the army as it drove at her in what seemed like a never-ending wave. _A little help?_ Eragon asked Glaedr and the gold dragon sent him the impression of a snort of amusement before Urnär sounded the horn, giving out two long blasts signalling the elves to once more march forwards into the fray.

As he fought he wondered at Thorn's retreat without Murtagh and with Morzan; had Morzan forced his son to give up his dragon? Or was Murtagh up to something and he trusted only his father to see it through … or perhaps Murtagh wanted Thorn to get to safety and his father was the only person with knowledge to heal the dragon's wounds? Though he wondered, he didn't have much room for thought as he battled his way through the swarm of humans Murtagh had whipped into some form of army. Eragon hoped Arya and Fírnen could reach Osilon and return before the battle was lost; he knew it would take them twice as long to get back since there was no way Fírnen could carry more than five passengers at once. All he had to do was keep the battle going until they returned – and until the reinforcements from Kirtan arrived with their excuses for being so late.

Though he and Saphira were a force to be reckoned with, not even they could keep an army at bay single-handed. As it was much of the force had already over taken the dragon and her Rider, surrounding them both in a tide of swords, spears and other weaponry while their comrades ran towards the advancing elves. Eragon wondered off-hand how loudly Arya would shout at him when she learnt of his 'bravery' or even if he'd live long enough for her to shout at him – he hoped he did … it'd be bad form to leave her to deal with Murtagh when he, Eragon, was the reason his half-brother had been forgotten for the past sixteen years. Not to mention how utterly distraught Saphira would be …

Someone smacked him in the face with the butt of a spear and he almost went down. Instinctively he reacted, his sword seemingly knowing exactly what to do as it guided his arm towards its opponent; battering aside the spear and lunging in without giving the foe a chance to fend for himself. Eragon winced as he wriggled his nose; it no longer felt connected to his body – as if it were just limply clinging to his face. Hot blood trickled over his lips, coating them in the salty iron tang. Worried, he explored the damage with his free hand, relieved to discover that his nose _wasn't_ actually a decapitated lump hanging on by a few half-hearted stringy tendons. Broken; that's all. Just broken and extremely numb – which explained why he couldn't feel it.

_That'll teach you for letting your mind wonder during a fight,_ Saphira smirked even as Eragon pulled Brisingr from the man's chest. _And I am so telling Arya how worried you were about the damage to your nose!_

_Why don't you take a leaf out of your own book and deal with those soldiers on your right flank?_ Eragon shot back, dispatching several soldiers in rapid succession as the elves crashed once more into Murtagh's army. In less than a few seconds, they'd pushed forwards to level with the dragon and her Rider, and giving Eragon the assurance that his back was – relatively speaking – now protected.

Someone managed to land a blow to his unprotected left forearm. The only reason Eragon didn't lose it was because Lady Gilá shot the man in the throat and caused him to topple over backwards the moment his sword had cut through Eragon's shirt and skin. He nodded to Gilá in thanks and was about to bound forwards into mayhem once again when his attention was caught by something else. On the edge of the woods, Murtagh had lingered after sending his father away on Thorn and up until that moment, Eragon had been unable to determine how much of a threat Murtagh was just then. So when his half-brother spun on his heel and disappeared into the depths of the forest, Eragon – naturally – ran after him, through the battle, dancing between various elves and humans as they battled for dominance. Murtagh's army had the advantage of numbers as well as the battalion of dead-men that Saphira had been forced to roast to ash, but the elves had the advantage of magic, the forest, and superior strength … even if they were weary from their encounter with the Nightmare Army Murtagh had cruelly dragged through Du Wydra Nángorörh without granting them life.

It was a dangerous, and frankly reckless move; it was entirely possible that Murtagh had _another_ battalion hidden in the forest, but Eragon was determined not to let him go. The mistake he'd made at the end of the war when Galbatorix had finally been beaten weighed down heavily upon him and it was his desire to put things right that urged him forwards as he darted after Murtagh's retreating back into the tall pines and oaks of Du Weldenvarden. Sense, it seemed, had abandoned him … but that was probably his own fault for sending Arya and Fírnen away. Ignoring several yells from the elves behind him – he thought he detected Oromis's voice among the cries – he ducked underneath a wild sword swing and dived between the trees leaving the Barren Field to its battle as he pursued his half-brother.

Eragon reduced his breakneck pace before he ran head long into a tree or something. He also kept a wary eye out for signs of Murtagh's passage, if he was retreating or if he was calling upon reinforcements, although it troubled Eragon that Murtagh had found so many humans to include in his army. How long had this army been in operation? From the grief they'd given the elves, they'd been well-trained … maybe Murtagh had waited to open Du Wydra Nángorörh until his army was ready to be a threat to the armies of Alagaësia … Eragon didn't know and he was almost too worried to find out.

As he went, the many and numerous injuries he'd accumulated throughout the course of the battle became known to him; the gash on his left arm, bruised ribs, broken nose, a few of his toes felt broken, and there was a large cut to the inside of his left knee which caused him to limp. He was also sure he had been wacked round the head a few times but couldn't remember for certain … Eragon readjusted the hold on his sword and peered through the trees looking for any sign of Murtagh. Had the idiot just vanished into thin air? Just as he was about to give up and head back to the battle, Eragon heard something.

The sound carried far in the quiet forest – which was strangely silent considering the battle raging in the Barren Field less than half a mile away. The crackling of flames and the shifting of a dragon in a confined space. Careful not to let his armour rattle and give him away, Eragon crouched down and moved gently through the undergrowth towards the sounds; he briefly contemplated sheathing his sword, but the lack of something to wipe the blade clean with changed his mind. One of the first things his father had taught him; _always clean your blade after use, never sheath a dirty sword._ Eragon nearly tripped over his sword as he tried to manage crawling through the brush; bits of twig and plants, leaves and dirt stuck to the sticky blood that coated his new armour.

As he struggled closer to the campfire, he accidently snapped a twig with his elbow.

"What was that?" someone asked. Eragon froze, slinking into the shadows and retreating within himself so as to avoid detection if the owner of the voice searched the near vicinity for anything out of the ordinary with his mind. For a few tense moments, Eragon heard his heart pounding in his ears and he was sure he was about to be discovered, but then the voice said; "Nothing. Probably just a wolf or some creature that lurks in this accursed forest."

"You don't know what it was?" Eragon heard Murtagh ask.

The first voice – he realised that it must've been Morzan – laughed. "The bloody elves probably wouldn't know what it was. This forest is awash with magic that's twisted some animals into cruel shadows of the beasts they once were." Silence for a few minutes and then, "You realise now the dead-men are gone that the tide of the battle has turned; the elves and your brother will win." Morzan spat the word 'brother' and Eragon got the impression that he wasn't at all pleased his wife had gone against him to his enemy's arms.

"All this was ever meant to be was to show Nasuada and the others what I can do. Eragon coming back west is only a minor inconvenience. He's not strong enough to come against me!" There was a sound muffled thump and Murtagh gave a small yelp while Thorn growled menacingly. Eragon deduced that Morzan had cuffed him round the ear.

"Idiot boy! He has all the eldunarí to aid him! While we are strong indeed – thanks to our _friend_ – we do not have strength enough to compete with three Riders _and_ all the collective eldunarí from the stores of Galbatorix and the Vault of Souls."

Eragon nudged forwards and peered through the bushes in time to see Murtagh rolling his eyes. Murtagh was sitting across the fire, almost directly opposite where Eragon was hiding while his father sat to his left opposite where Thorn lay. The big dragon's wounds had been healed and he appeared to be snoozing in the rapidly approaching night. His mind was racing; what '_friend_' where they talking about?

"We have five more battalions hiding out in The Spine," Murtagh was saying ruefully. "Two of which are more of the dead-men that Saphira turned to ash. While they blither about here trying to understand what it means and where we will attack next, we can move forwards with phase two. Phase three will already be half-way done by the time they realise what's going on and that the elves _aren't_ our target!"

Morzan snorted. "You're as crazy as Galbatorix."

Murtagh shook his head, "Maybe. Maybe I was normal once – _as were you_ – but prolonged servitude to that madman corrupted us beyond cure."

"Enough;" Morzan got to his feet and disappeared from view for a few moments, before returning into Eragon's line of sight carrying something wrapped in dirtied rags. He wasn't sure if it were the light or his imagination, but the bundle appeared to be glowing. "Take this with you."

Murtagh accepted the bundle, "What are you going to do? I thought the plan was to go back together? Besides, I thought you wanted to give Brayan some lessons in … whatever it was you wanted to teach him."

Morzan pulled out a plain sword and inspected the blade for damage. "There's something I need to do … _someone_ I need to see to."

Rolling his eyes, Murtagh got to his feet. "You're mad – going back to the battle like that. But if you want to get yourself killed then be my guest. I don't need you; not now I have this." He gestured to the bundle in the crook of his elbow.

_Well_, thought Eragon_, that settles the 'who's in charge of who' question._

"Go deal with your old teacher. Do us all a favour and leave Eragon and Arya in the lurch that will; it's pathetic the way they both need someone _of old_ to tell them what to do. Can't understand why they insist on clinging onto the past." Murtagh continued muttering to himself as his father hefted a half filled pack onto his back and strapped a dented shield to his left arm. Eragon couldn't remember who it was, but someone once told him how Morzan always kept his armour polished bright because he need not fear his enemies seeing him coming. Whoever it was – they were right. Morzan blazed like a cold star of death as he marched away from Murtagh's campfire, passing dangerously close to where Eragon lay hiding in the undergrowth. He hadn't said goodbye to his son.

Eragon's mind was racing. The need to reach out and warn Saphira and the rest that Morzan was on his way back into the fight was hammering against his skull, but if he _did_ then he'd run the risk of Murtagh and or Morzan noticing his presence and neither would be willing to let Eragon get away after overhearing what he'd just overheard … not that it actually made much sense. He just hoped Oromis was up to the confrontation Morzan had planned; at least they didn't seem to realise that it was _Eragon_ who called the shots, not Oromis.

_Arya …_ he thought quietly, _the battle needs you_. He regretted sending her and Fírnen away, his dignity would be in tatters after she was done yelling at him, but at least she wasn't here trying to stop him or blundering in before he had time to think. The sixteen years on the island had taught Eragon that taking time to _think_ at least a little before running headlong into a situation could mean the difference between success and failure. Also it helped to clear his head and get his priorities sorted … although his priorities were likely to change dramatically in the middle of such a confrontation.

Something pained him greatly though, as he watched his brother saddling Thorn and gathering up his supplies. The glowing bundle, Eragon noted, was not packed away and he deduced that Murtagh intended on holding all the way back to … wherever he was hiding out. The Spine, they'd said. Somewhere in the Spine. _But why?_ He wondered silently, why was Murtagh so – so content to be the man he'd become rather than who he had been? _Because Galbatorix changed him and broke him beyond repair,_ he realised with a pang to his heart. _He and Thorn broke free of their oaths but not of him … We should never have let them go._

Eragon knew what Glaedr and Umaroth would say; they'd tell him that it was a mistake … only a mistake … a mistake that Oromis would've made and that his father made in Morzan. They would say that because he was bought up and taught to believe the best in people, to believe that they can change and change for the better, that someone would and could change for the worse was never going to cross his mind until too late. The eldunarí would tell him that the only thing he could've done differently to prevent what was happening from happening would be if he and Saphira had killed Murtagh and Thorn that day by the river when they'd let them go.

_But that would've made us no better than Galbatorix_, Eragon protested silently, before responding to himself again in words the dragons would comfort him with. _Which is exactly the reason we let them go._

His attentions turned to the mysterious bundle and a sudden certainty struck him that it needed to be removed from Murtagh's possession and quickly, before his half-brother realised the eldunarí supply was diminished by over two-thirds. Muttering a phrase for good luck under his breath that Blödhgarm had taught him, Eragon got to his feet making sure to remain hidden as long as he could before straightening up and stepping boldly into the circle of light from Murtagh's fire.

"Evening, Brother Dear," he said, using the words Murtagh had written in the letter to Arya. Murtagh whirled around, Zar'roc already whipped out of its sheath and pointed directly at Eragon's heart. Eragon kept his own sword – still covered in sticky blood and muck (much like the rest of himself) as it was – lowered although he was studying his brother with all the clarity of the icy calmness required to fight. Brisingr would meet Zar'roc the moment Murtagh betrayed the smallest hint of movement and the two blades would clang and clash against each other as if that was the sole reason and intent the swords had been forged.

"Eragon … how lovely to see you." Murtagh's eyes, Eragon noted, were a little wild. He hadn't anticipated this. "How was the east?"

Eragon shrugged neglectantly, "Oh … you know. Same old, same old."

"Indeed." The word was released through gritted teeth; Murtagh wanted something to use against him, but Eragon being vague and incoherent meant he had nothing. "Has the battle bored you?"

"Battle? I just fancied a little reprieve; and there's nothing like a stroll through the forest to clear your head now is there? I take it that's why you left isn't it? You weren't running away were you … not turning coward on me are you _brother?_"

Murtagh snorted. "You're one to talk," he spat. "Why aren't _you_ still fighting?"

"I told you," Eragon said mildly, "I'm taking a reprieve … clearing my head. Besides," he added as an afterthought in a deliberately casual tone, "the reinforcements are due any minute so it's not like I'm going to be missed for long."

A low chill laugh emitted from Murtagh then. "Are they now?" he said, "Where these reinforcements due from Kirtan by any chance?"

Eragon smiled, "So you _are_ responsible for their tardiness … ah well. I just wanted to be sure … but that's beside the point. Arya and Fírnen are on their way back from Osilon as we speak with any and every one capable of wielding a sword and drawing a bow."

Murtagh shook his head. "Well, perhaps Thorn and I will pay them both a little visit huh? I mean they really could do with the practise!" Until that moment, the red dragon appeared to have been sleeping; his tail whipped out of nowhere and took Eragon's legs from under him, sending the Rider crashing to the ground on his back, where he lay stunned and winded. Murtagh laughed and slashed wildly at his face; Eragon rolled out of the way, but the tip of Zar'roc sent a line of white-hot pain along the side of his face and he felt hot fresh blood joining the sticky substance that coated his armour red.

Murtagh jumped onto Thorn's back, and the great dragon clipped Eragon under the chin as he spread his wings in preparation to take flight. Eragon crawled out of the way and staggered to his feet as the dragon made to jump into the air; at the last second he yelled out, "Forgotten something?" and held up the glowing bundle. He allowed a second of victory to soak up the outrage on Murtagh's face before turning tail and running into the depths of Du Weldenvarden.

Above him, Thorn and Murtagh gave chase from the skies, but Eragon knew from experience that it was difficult to see much beneath the cluster of branches and leaves. But he felt a surge of satisfaction that his plan had worked; rather than heading out to intercept an unwary Arya and Fírnen as they returned to battle with the reinforcements, Murtagh and Thorn had no choice but to chase Eragon if they wanted their bundle back. And Eragon was right in thinking they valued the glowing rag-wrapped bundle higher than killing Arya and Fírnen.

He tripped, fell head long over a spiteful tree root and down a steep mossy bank into the bed of a stream. It was several moments before Eragon managed to push himself upright and he winced and nearly collapsed again as his left arm threatened to buckle beneath his weight. Panting, and wondering how many more scrapes he'd picked up, Eragon knelt in the stream and glanced up through the branches although he saw no sign of Thorn. Brisingr lay two feet away submerged in the brook and the blood and whatnot was slowly being washed away – as with the parts of his armour that the water could reach. Looking down, Eragon's curiosity overwhelmed him for a moment as he saw a winking glint from beneath the sodden wrappings of the stolen bundle.

Eragon pulled it closer and pushed aside the rags enough to get a glimpse at whatever it was. A gasp escaped as he pulled away the wrappings and lifted the object into the fading light. Roughly the size Saphira's egg had been, but irregularly cut to resemble a lop-sided sphere, it weighed about as much as a newly born baby – not that he could accurately recall what one of those weighed since the last one he held happened to be his niece Ismira. It was a diamond. The purest, most perfect diamond Eragon had ever seen, not to mention the biggest. Every dwarf would be yearning for it and Eragon wouldn't at all be surprised if a clan-war broke out over the possession of this diamond.

And it glowed. Not as every diamond did, with the reflection of the light off a million polished surfaces, but from within. A pearly white substance was smoking and smouldering in the heart of the rock and it gave the diamond a glow that shamed all other diamonds. The thing it resembled most, Eragon thought, was the eldunarí – the dragons' hearts of hearts … but this diamond was clearly not the physical embodiment of a dragon's consciousness. Eragon could've stayed kneeling in that stream, staring into the heart of the diamond rock for the rest of the evening and into the night, but sense wriggled back into the forefront of his mind and he swiftly wrapped the diamond up in the rags once again.

Turning to reach for his sword, the bundle was ripped from his hands and something lodged itself very firmly in his chest.

Breath hitched in his throat and for a long moment, he forgot how to breathe as his body shuddered and protested at the foreign object that was buried up to the hilt in his torso and sticking – dripping red, staining the stream – from his back. Then it was wrenched out of him and Eragon lurched forwards, hands falling first to prevent his total collapse. Above him someone was talking and laughing but Eragon didn't seem to hear; the only thing he could hear was the gurgle of the reddening stream. His fingers brushed the sapphire pommel of his sword and a hard resolve filled his heart.

With a roar like a hurricane, he grabbed Brisingr and whipped it around, using the momentum to turn his body, as he slashed and cut blindly at where Murtagh was standing. He felt a tug on the end of the sword and pulled it harder before swinging again at the same spot; Murtagh let out a yell and several curses – the next thing Eragon felt was a boot kicking him in the sternum. His sword slipped from unfeeling fingers and he fell on his back into the brook that ran red with the blood of a Dragon Rider. _Kuldrhjarta …_ a voice said, ringing through his mind like a great low chord that seemed to grow in volume with each echo. _Kuldrhjarta ... a heritor, a successor … Kuldrhjarta … there is an heir … Kuldrhjarta …_

It was sometime later, and it occurred to Eragon that he wasn't alone. Opening his eyes he looked up at her, his mind foggy and reluctant to make sense of her and who she was. "I know you," he whispered finally.

A smile lightened her face as her gentle fingers brushed his forehead. "You know me," she agreed in hushed tones to match his own. Eragon reached out a weary hand and traced the line of her jaw as she closed her eyes before lifting a hand and holding his still against her face. Arya shuddered – as if taking great effort to control her emotions – before twisting slightly and kissing his palm, the centre of his gedwëy ignasia. Her eyes opened and locked onto his; there was pain there, and fear – fear at having thought she'd lost him – and he wanted to say something but he didn't really know what. His body felt broken and twisted and he lay crumpled in the water with his head resting in her lap as she almost clung to him and to the fact that he was – miraculously – still alive. Somehow. Then a shout rent the still air and the moments they shared were torn away with little regard for their frantic hearts.

The only thing Eragon knew before oblivion was Arya.

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><p>AN : _sorry it took so long but I kinda hit a wall and then a sudden burst of inspiration hit me so here we are :) Oh and yeah ... Eragon's in pretty bad shape huh?_


	30. Waiting and Realising

**Waiting and Realising**

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><p>Where she had come from he had not the faintest of clues, but when Lady Gilá's soldiers had carried Eragon – wounded and dying – into the pavilion, Angela had immediately taken charge. He had been sent to sit on a rock outside along with a very upset and worried Arya with the promise they'd be called if it were required. Oromis still didn't know how or why Angela had such a presence to command even Dragon Riders as easily as she did – or how she continued to befuddle and confuse everyone with her strange and often ridiculous quips. The witch had gone by another name once – and as far as Oromis knew she was the only one left – but apparently she had chosen another pseudonym to go by … probably so the elves would stop pestering her.<p>

Oromis had suggested, without any delusions that his words would go ignored, that Arya go change out of her gore spattered armour but all he got in response was a glare and some muttering under her breath that sounded suspiciously like dwarvish. And not the nice dwarvish either. _She loves him,_ Glaedr pointed out, _so do you really think she'll be anywhere but here until she knows he's going to be alright?_

_What if he isn't?_ Oromis asked in a low voice. As a teacher he had learned long ago that displaying anything other than optimism and confidence was damaging to the pupils in his charge, but that never meant he didn't doubt and worry.

Glaedr was silent for a time, _For their sakes … and ours – he has to be._ Saphira and Fírnen – both having been healed by the elves – lay curled together beside Arya, who was sitting with her arms around her knees leaning against Saphira's jaw. _He has to be …_

_Like father, like son …_ Oromis sighed wearily as he leaned back against an empty cart that had probably been used to transport weapons and tents to the battle site. He was about to insist to Arya that she go change, but how could he ask that of her when he wasn't about to either? Eragon represented a great many things to him and to Arya; in some ways the three of them had found in each other the families they had lost during the war. Oromis knew that if it were Arya in that tent then Eragon would be sitting as she was now and he hoped that if were _him_ in that tent the two of them would know better than to sit around doing nothing when so much needed to be done.

_You realise they would not move until you were up and healed and had ordered them away._ Glaedr told him. Oromis had nothing to say. For all the confidence he had in Angela, Oromis could not help but doubt her; Eragon had been run through the chest nicking the edge of his heart and puncturing his lung. There were numerous other injuries that the Rider had sustained but they were not life threatening: a cut on his left forearm, a broken nose and fingers, a gash on the inside of his right knee and some broken toes and finally a long thin scratch along his head that severed the tip of his ear finishing at the top of his cheek bone under his right eye.

Oromis sighed and closed his eyes. He remembered many-a-time in a situation similar to this, but with Brom unconscious in the tent; the last time had been upon the plains of Ilirea. When Evander had been struck down, Brom had rallied the elven army and lead them forth for one final charge at Galbatorix, only to get knocked out by someone's helmet as it was tossed over the battle site when the unfortunate owner had been decapitated. Oromis almost wished Brom had been the one to tread the path rather than him, maybe Eragon would listen to his father and stop hurtling headlong into suicidal situations. Or maybe Brom would be there hurtling right alongside his son … He glanced over at Arya, the elf was in a state of shock; from what he understood, Arya had been the one who'd found Eragon, bleeding and dying in that stream and Oromis suspected that she was currently in the process of confronting her feelings towards Saphira's Rider. Fírnen shifted on the ground, lifted his head and swung it so he could stare Arya in the face before snorting, engulfing her in a cloud of smoke which made her cough, and – Oromis was sure the dragon had made certain he could see – rolled his giant yellow-green eyes as if to say _it's about time_.

He couldn't help the small laugh that escaped him. Arya glanced over at him fleetingly before quickly darting her eyes to her knees again, but Oromis did see a faint tinge of red on the cheeks of Islanzadí's daughter, which made him smile and glow warm inside; no one deserved her more than Eragon – and no one deserved him more than she. Glaedr snorted (well, imagined he was snorting)_ I swear you grow more and more sentimental with each passing year. So what, they're in love. Love isn't a novelty – it's the most common thing in all the world, almost as common as death._

_Cynic._

That amused Glaedr, _Yes_, he agreed_, yet _you're_ the one that died._

_Tragic isn't it?_ Oromis murmured as he winced and stretched his legs out before him. He had healed away the more serious cuts and abrasions from battle, but left the lesser injuries to mend at nature's pace. However he was very stiff and very sore and really, he reflected, far too old for running around banging swords with other people, he much preferred to sit and teach the histories and mysteries of magic and lore to young hatchlings. _If we get through this,_ Oromis muttered as he rested his head back against the cart, _then I might consider retiring … for good this time._

Through their altered bond, he sensed Glaedr's amusement. _You'll be out waving Naegling around the next time someone starts threatening your hatchlings,_ he predicted. The alarming thing was, Glaedr was right. Sighing, the old Rider closed his eyes and let his mind wander blankly into the realm of dreams and fantasies where shadow children were running around him in circles – demanding stories and treats – while Eragon and Arya stood by and laughed lightly …

"Ebrithil …"

Oromis blinked and looked around him in confusion, the fresh sunlight of dawn bathed the camp in a warm golden glow. Arya was kneeling beside him still garbed in her armour that wafted a highly unflattering fragrance … but he probably smelled no better. She looked awful; as though worry and apprehension had eaten away at her from the inside until there was nothing remaining but an empty shell that would take very little to crack and shatter apart. Oromis wasn't the only one who needed to think about settling down after this was all over, yet like him Arya was not about to leave the running and governing of the land to others without keeping a close eye on those in charge. He sighed; _The curse of the Riders_, he mused_, destined to never have a moment's peace until the day we die._

Arya was speaking and so Oromis left his musings be and turned his attention to her. "… done all she can. We just have to wait and see if he wakes up or not." Oromis could've sworn there was a hitch in Arya's voice as she ceased speaking.

"Well then there is little point in sitting here much longer then is there?" he said as he sat up with a muffled groan. "When so much still needs to be done. I dare say the reinforcements from Kirtan have yet to show up?"

Arya shrugged. "There was some commotion a few hours ago … I didn't pay it any attention though, I was …" she trailed off, glancing at the tent. "You can go and see for yourself if you want; I shall remain here."

Oromis got to his feet and looked down at the elf. "And how will remaining here, doing nothing, be of help to anyone? You are a Dragon Rider are you not?" Arya glanced up at him but did not answer, "And we must set aside our own needs for the needs of others, must we not?" Arya didn't answer, although her jaw clenched and her hands curled into fists. "Must we not?" Oromis repeated in a sterner voice.

She worked her jaw before closing her eyes in defeat and nodding.

Helping her upright, Oromis said in a gentler voice, "No one ever said it would be easy, child. But if it were easy, would it be worth it?" Fírnen and Saphira were still curled together, casting the tent where Angela was healing or had healed Eragon into shadow. "They can remain here and let us know when Eragon has awoken … go change Arya. And wash. You'll feel better for it once you have done so."

For a moment, Oromis thought Arya would refuse and sit back down again, but he was pleasantly surprised when she instead turned on her heel and stalked away. Oromis sighed heavily again and ran a hand over his tired face. _So much to be done_, he thought, _and no way of knowing how much time to do it all in … what were you doing in the forest boy?_ He wondered for the thousandth time. _And how did you become to be so distracted that you could be dealt such a blow?_ For Oromis knew Eragon was too good a swordsman to be easily beaten as it seemed he'd been; something must have happened to put him off his guard and enable his foe to injure him in such a manner.

"I don't suppose you know what happened Saphira?"

_No, ebrithil … I do not. He closed his mind from me when he reached the woods and I have no way of knowing why until he explains himself._

After a few more moments Oromis turned and walked away from the tent towards his own, where he quickly removed himself from the armour and underclothing. His bath consisted of splashing water from a wineskin and using his hands to try and clean off the dirt, although all he succeeded in doing was spreading the dirt around himself more evenly. Pulling on fresh clothes and buckling Naegling to his side, Oromis set out to discover all he could of recent events.

The commotion Arya had heard turned out to be the late arrival of the Kirtan forces. Lord Tarthis and Lady Jelvi were in the midst of a heated debate when Oromis wondered across them. After trying the diplomatic approach, Oromis resorted to mild threats in order to break the argument up and pointed out that it didn't really matter since they won the battle anyway. Both Tarthis and Jelvi stalked off in opposite directions with haughty expressions on their faces and Oromis surpassed a groan. Neither had been able to tell him the fate of King Däthedr.

After spending half the morning looking, Oromis happened across the king perched upon a tree stump staring gloomily out over the Barren Field which was littered with the dead. A bandage was wrapped around his left hand and his right arm was in a sling, from the bulging of his shirt Oromis deduced that his torso was also heavily wrapped and bandaged. Magic was all well and good, but there were some things that were impossible. He inquired politely after the king's health and offered his assistance, which – thankfully – was turned down. Blödhgarm had been sent back to Osilon for further healing but he was alive and well though would take several weeks to fully recover. Oromis asked Däthedr to send him back to Ilrena once the elf was travel worthy. "Let Delsá see to his healing; I doubt he'd listen to any other."

"But he is the Shadeslayer's skölir edoc'sil is he not?"

"And how will he protect Eragon if he is not recovered?" Oromis asked.

Däthedr inclined his head, "Shall I order him to go, or suggest it?"

"Try both."

After taking his leave of the king, Oromis decided to have a look at the stream Eragon had been discovered in. Lady Gilá had given him directions as her warriors carried the unconscious Rider into the herbalist's domain and so he set off into the forest with Glaedr keeping watch at the back of his mind. His theory was the stream would provide some piece of evidence or information that might betray what had happened and thus remove the need for Eragon to wake as quickly as he possibly could … if he ever would wake that was. But when he reached the stream all he found was a few splatters of blood along the banks and some depressions in the dirt. Nothing to tell him how and why Eragon had been wounded so easily – or why his sword wasn't in his hand.

Hunger lured Oromis back to camp.

He had just helped himself to some bread and cheese and sat down in the sun under a beech tree when Arya appeared at his side. "He's awake," she said breathlessly and had clearly been running through the camp in order to find him. Which struck Oromis as odd; if Eragon was awake why was she not already at his side?

_Because now she knows she loves him, she doesn't know how to act around him_. Glaedr supplied.

_Why are children so complicated and full of self-doubt?_ Oromis complained as he let Arya drag him to his feet and abandon his lunch.

_Arya is no child. And nor is Eragon._

_Children to me_.

Glaedr snorted. _What will it take for you to stop seeing them as younglings?_

'_Tis the curse of an old man, Glaedr. To me _everyone_ is little more than a child with so much ahead to learn and discover_.

Arya had done as he'd asked and changed out of her armour. Her hair was slightly damp and Oromis guessed that Arya hadn't settled for some pathetic attempts of washing with a water skin and dirty hands. Though she had belted her sword around her narrow waist, Arya had chosen to don a simple dress rather than leggings and a shirt. Her feet – as ever – were bare. The sun beat down between the leaves and Oromis began to perspire in his long shirt and trousers to the point where he was envying Arya in her dress. Perhaps that was why she'd put it on – because it was so hot and stuffy under these damned trees.

Saphira and Fírnen were still curled together outside the tent, although they had appeared to shifted and twisted since Oromis had left them. Saphira had her head stuck through the opening clearly talking with Eragon and blocking the entrance for Arya and Oromis to get in. Angela was knitting a large yellow sock with bright blue patterns while Solembum the werecat lay curled on Fírnen's back snoozing in the sun.

Glancing at Arya, who had gone slightly paler and much more hesitant now they were outside the tent, Oromis took the lead. He placed a hand on Saphira's warm neck and reached out to touch the dragon's mind. _May Arya Dröttningu and I come inside Bjartskular?_

She sniffed and Oromis felt the muscles in her neck contract as she withdrew her head from the depths of the tent. _Of course_, she said humming to herself as she settled herself beside Fírnen. _Just don't let him get up and start waving his sword around._

_I won't_, Oromis promised as he ducked inside with Arya at his heels.

The interior was much darker than the bright sunlight outside meaning Oromis was temporarily blinded by the sudden change as he entered. After a moment everything fell into focus and he spotted Eragon (shirtless and heavily wrapped in bandages) sitting upright on the bed staring moodily at the canvas wall opposite him. He looked round when Oromis and Arya entered and a smile stretched his face as he saw them.

"You had us all worried a while there, Bromsson." Oromis informed the young Rider as he settled himself on the stool by Eragon's bed.

Eragon shrugged. "I've survived worse," he said.

Arya gave a disbelieving snort but did not speak as she perched on the edge of the bed after Eragon moved his legs to give her space.

"Well … maybe not _worse_ so much as _more painful_ …"

Oromis shook his head. "You truly are your father's son," he said.

"Were you ever in any doubt?" Eragon teased. "You were, after all, the only one who knew."

"Oh I never doubted for a second. But enough … tell me what happened."

Eragon's face fell slightly making the smile that had been there look fixed. "I followed Murtagh into the forest," he began. "They were talking about how this was only a distraction – to put us off the scent so to speak; while we were supposedly running around waiting and panicking about where abouts in the forest he'd attack next – they would be getting on with 'phase two' whatever that is and have 'phase three' half way done by the time we cottoned on to the elves _not_ being the target."

"So who is the target?" Oromis pressed.

Eragon's face screwed up in concentration. "I'm not sure – I don't think it was mentioned. But they did say something about … hang on …" Oromis watched Eragon think some more. "It'd be easier just to show you," he said finally glancing at Arya. Oromis nodded and after a moment so did Arya. He reached out and joined his mind with the minds of his two pupils and Eragon brought forth the memory he wished to share.

"_All this was ever meant to be was to show Nasuada and the others what I can do. Eragon coming back west is only a minor inconvenience. He's not strong enough to come against me!" There was a sound muffled thump and Murtagh gave a small yelp while Thorn growled menacingly. Eragon deduced that Morzan had cuffed him round the ear._

"_Idiot boy! He has all the eldunarí to aid him! While we are strong indeed – thanks to our friend – we do not have strength enough to compete with three Riders and all the collective eldunarí from the stores of Galbatorix and the Vault of Souls."_

_Eragon nudged forwards and peered through the bushes in time to see Murtagh rolling his eyes. Murtagh was sitting across the fire, almost directly opposite where Eragon was hiding while his father sat to his left opposite where Thorn lay. The big dragon's wounds had been healed and he appeared to be snoozing in the rapidly approaching night. His mind was racing; what 'friend' where they talking about?_

"_We have five more battalions hiding out in The Spine," Murtagh was saying ruefully. "Two of which are more of the dead-men that Saphira turned to ash. While they blither about here trying to understand what it means and where we will attack next, we can move forwards with phase two. Phase three will already be half-way done by the time they realise what's going on and that the elves aren't our target!"_

_Morzan snorted. "You're as crazy as Galbatorix."_

_Murtagh shook his head, "Maybe. Maybe I was normal once – as were you – but prolonged servitude to that madman corrupted us beyond cure."_

"_Enough;" Morzan got to his feet and disappeared from view for a few moments, before returning into Eragon's line of sight carrying something wrapped in dirtied rags. He wasn't sure if it were the light or his imagination, but the bundle appeared to be glowing. "Take this with you."_

_Murtagh accepted the bundle._

The rest was shrouded in haze due to Eragon's injuries but Oromis was able to get the gist of what happened next; Eragon stealing the bundle and running headlong into the forest only to tumble into the stream and allow curiosity to overwhelm him enough for Murtagh to almost kill him. And the voice Eragon had heard speaking in the depths like some forgotten force – Oromis was sure it had something – everything – to do with that eldunarí-like diamond.

"What did the voice say again?" he asked.

Eragon rubbed his eyes. "It didn't make any sense to me; 'Kuldrhjarta … a heritor, a successor … Kuldrhjarta … there is an heir … Kuldrhjarta' and it just kept repeating that until I blacked out."

Oromis's mind was reeling while Glaedr was stunned with shock. _But they died out long ago_, Oromis dismissed as his dragon's mind veered towards a certain certainty, _and it doesn't explain that rock either._

_We need to know for sure. This could solve our lack-of-eldunarí issue._ Glaedr pointed out.

_But there is no way of knowing._

_Yes. There is._ Glaedr murmured. _I felt something I had not felt since we lost __Adurnahjarta at the siege of __Cithrí, and you well know she was last we knew of since._

_Where?_ Oromis asked suspiciously_, where would you have us go?_

_To Doru Areaba. To Vroengard_.

"Ebrithil?" Eragon asked, "Is something wrong? You've not spoken for over three minutes …"

Oromis returned to reality. "No, nothing. Just something Glaedr and I were discussing took my attention for a moment. Forgive me." But he could tell Eragon wasn't fooled; he knew Oromis knew something and wasn't telling him and Eragon didn't appreciate the silence one bit. To take the focus away somewhat, Oromis turned to Arya and said; "At least you found him when you did. Another minute or two I doubt he'd have made it."

Eragon was looking at Arya; she appeared to be struggling to control herself and before Eragon or Oromis had time to blink, she had slapped Eragon around the face. In the stunned silence that followed, Arya had hugged Eragon tightly which winded him and the confusion on his face doubled to the point where Oromis had to cover his mouth to hide his smile. When Eragon tentatively placed his arms round her too, Arya pulled back abruptly as if suddenly aware of what she'd done and gave Eragon a light punch to his stomach which caused him to double over.

"What was all that for?" he asked weakly.

A small smile twitched on Arya's lips. "I … I thought I'd lost you," she explained in a half whisper and Oromis took his leave at that point.

* * *

><p>AN : _i know i have been gone a while - please forgive me i have actually been doing stuff this summer ... and i start college in september ... but do not think i have abandoned this tale. it is just much longer than i had thought it would be but hey its fun to write and at least you are all enjoying it. i thought i'd have a little break and give you another Oromis PoV_


	31. River Of Silver

**River of Silver**

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><p>Leaving Blödhgarm behind wasn't Eragon's idea, but he saw the need for it. His friend needed time to recover from his injuries and to do that he had to be taken away from situations that would require him to get hurt further due to the oath he'd taken which entailed protecting Eragon from any and all harm. All the same, he felt a sense of betrayal as Saphira flew further and further west, away from Osilon; he and Blödhgarm had been through almost as much as he and Arya had been through together and such ties as those were hard to ignore.<p>

But they were heading to Vroengard, a place Eragon knew was not lightly travelled and after his previous visits he wasn't sure he really wanted to return. A sense of unearthly decay gripped the island and strange beasts – stranger than those found in Du Weldenvarden – roamed free and unchecked throughout the city that once homed the Dragon Riders. Why they were going … well Oromis was being annoyingly vague about it, more so than usual which instantly had Eragon thinking that his master was withholding vital information for stupid and unnecessary reasons. He hated being thought of as a child; hadn't he proved enough that he wasn't?

_Nope. Especially not after what just happened._

_I healed haven't I? I am alive aren't I?_

Saphira huffed. _Just._

He decided to let her be. Perhaps it was a female thing, because Arya was being just as … uptight … as Saphira was since he'd woken and Eragon couldn't fathom the reasons. Fírnen at least had openly stated how pleased he was Eragon was alright and that he did the right thing by trying to take the stone from Murtagh. Arya and Saphira took the opinion that he was being reckless and idiotic and that there were much more subtle ways to have stolen the rock; Oromis it seemed had reserved judgement, as though he was waiting for something. Eragon just wished he knew what.

Night crept towards them as the two dragons drifted down to the earth, alighting beside the Anora River, the river of Eragon's childhood. The outermost mountains of the Spine cast them in shadow and it comforted him to see them; he had grown up surrounded by these mountains – these jagged structures that shot up haphazardly along the length of Alagaësia. To Eragon it seemed like the mountains were welcoming him back with open arms saying 'come on in and discover all these new secrets we never got to share with you'. The tangle of forest beckoned him invitingly as he dismounted. Saphira too, was staring at the Spine and Eragon could tell she had missed the mountains as much as he had.

With a little sigh Eragon turned his back on the Spine to find that Oromis had already got a fire started and was in the middle of preparing supper. Fírnen was at the river's edge taking a long drink while Arya removed his saddle. Eragon turned to his own dragon and reached up to start unbuckling the many straps used to hold it in place, but the movement pulled at the wound in his chest and he winced, louder than he meant to, stumbling back a step as he pressed his right hand over the injury his eyes clenched against the jagged pain.

Apparently healing a man whose back had been rent open by a Shade was easier than healing a man who'd been run through by his half-brother. The injury was still red and raw and not at all the cleanly healed scar he'd awoken to after Angela had tended to him before. At least he didn't have to walk around with a bandage round his head all the time since Angela _had_ been able to speed up the healing process for that injury. Even so, Eragon missed the tip of his right ear. But curing someone who had had their lung punctured and heart nicked … well Angela said she was more concerned about the inside bits being properly healed and fixed than the two gashes in Eragon's flesh; one where Zar'roc had entered his chest and the other where it had exited. All the herbalist had done was sew the wounds closed and wrap him up in a bandage before pronouncing him fit as a fiddle and to be on his way.

Once the jagged pain had subsided and Eragon was able to open his eyes, he found he was sitting beside Oromis's fire and that Arya was in the final stages of removing Saphira's saddle. Eragon sighed dejectedly and let his head fall into his hands, _Not again_, he thought miserably. _I can't do that all again_. Sporadic fits of pain and agony … oh he'd had his fill of that thanks to Durza and he definitely didn't want to endure anything like it ever again. He didn't think he could survive it if he did.

He felt Arya come and sit beside him but made no move to acknowledge her. Saphira had clearly sensed how he wished to be alone and had flown off into the night in search of prey with Fírnen and Oromis was making supper in silence. He had thought Arya would speak, but when she didn't Eragon realised she still was annoyed at him for getting into such a situation as he'd done. Finally when he could stand the silence no more he looked up at her and said, "Are you still angry with me?"

The tension seemed to melt out of her. "No," she murmured, "Not really. Annoyed – yes. But I was never angry with you." Arya glanced up at him, "I haven't ever been able to be angry with you, at least not for more than five minutes. For some reason it always fades to annoyance which just makes me all the more irritated."

Eragon hid his grin, "You're annoyed that you're annoyed with me?" he asked in gently mocking tones.

She bumped his shoulder with her own, "You don't understand how … how …" she searched for the right word, "how _stupid_ you can be. You're like an overgrown child who never thinks before –"

"I think," Eragon interrupted more harshly than he'd intended. "When I saw that stone I knew I had to get it away from Murtagh and so I –"

"Went rushing headlong into the clearing, I know."

Eragon worked his jaw. "_No._ Actually I considered many different options and dismissed them all because _they would not have worked_. Yes I could've used magic – and betrayed my location to Murtagh and Morzan. Yes I could've used a thousand and one other methods, but the action I took I took because there was no other choice."

"You could've run into the woods without first letting Murtagh know you had taken the rock from him," Arya muttered.

Eragon looked into the fire. He didn't want to admit to his reasons for that, not now and especially not when Oromis was listening to every word they said. So instead he held his tongue and allowed her win the argument and letting her believe she was right in thinking he hadn't thought at all when he rushed headlong into Murtagh's clearing and seized the rock from him.

All in all it was a very subdued dinner; Arya remained beside Eragon even when Fírnen and Saphira returned, but neither spoke much to the other, and Oromis seemed content with being left to his own thoughts. Finally as it grew late, Eragon suggested the other two get some rest while he kept watch since he'd done enough sleeping. Both laid back and succumbed to the dream-world while Eragon remained alert and bad tempered, but not sure why he was so angry. Maybe it was because both Oromis and Arya were keeping things from him and thus keeping their distance. Nothing made you feel lonelier than sitting with people you knew wouldn't miss you if you got up and walked away. And that was how it had felt this evening with Oromis and Arya and why Eragon had volunteered first watch; he hoped his bad mood would pass before they woke.

About midnight the moon emerged throwing Eragon into a world of silver and darkness. Entranced, he wondered over to the river which flowed like a molten bed of liquefied stars and sat down beside it, staring without seeing, into its depths. Many thoughts and musings crossed his mind, some good and most bad, and it felt like his head was about to explode with all the crampt and endless contemplations pounding inside his skull. He let out a moan and buried his head in his hands again, his fingers brushing the unfamiliar flatness that was the top of his right ear. He never thought he'd miss the elven shaped point … but he did.

It was like a hurricane in his mind; one thought clamouring to be heard over another while three or four would wrestle and fight with one another. Some led him in counteracting directions while other to dead ends and all the while more and more would burst forth and enter the mix while none seemed willing to go away. It felt like they were all hammering the inside of his skull trying to gain his attention and competing with all the others. He wished he could just brush them all aside and just not think, but even during his mediations there was no escape from his thoughts. The racket reached an almighty crescendo that threatened to drown him completely –

"Talk to me."

Her words stunned silence into his brain. Tentatively he lifted his head out of his hands and looked around. But of course it was Arya; in all fairness who else would it be?

"Talk to you?" he asked, "About what?"

She shrugged. "Anything … anything at all." Eragon looked back at the river but suddenly no thought came to the forefront of his mind. Arya shifted closer to him and rested her head against his shoulder. "Tell me about the mountains," she whispered.

His heart was hammering painfully in his chest, almost as if it were about to rip open the stitches and escape his body. His breathing too, had increased and he wondered if Arya could tell and was glad that she didn't say anything – if she said anything then he wasn't sure he'd be able to look her in the eye again. So ignoring the betrayals of his body, Eragon hesitantly placed his arm around Arya's waist as he told her about the mountains. He wasn't sure what to say so he recounted some of Brom's stories, and it almost felt like he was back in the crowd at Carvahall listening to the old man weaving tales of wonder and impossibilities. Eragon even forgot it was his own voice speaking so lost he was in his memories of much simpler times.

"… and he swept her up into his arms and together father and daughter roamed the Spine until their dying days."

"Most of the tales I heard as a child were of the forest. I suppose people tend to relate better if they know the locations being spoken of in song." Arya murmured.

Eragon tried for a shrug, but Arya was leaning against his right shoulder and moving his left would irritate his wounds. "There's something about heroes from legend having played and lived in the places you played and lived."

They fell silent and simply sat and watched the liquid silver flow past by their feet as the stars winked conspiratorially down at them, as if sharing some great secret. There was something about the simplistic beauty that reminded Eragon of the island … it seemed like such a long time ago since he had spent evenings sitting upon the beach watching the waves wash against the shore while the stars and the moon reflected in the water as he stared out west, not realising that he was doing so and yet hoping for a flash of light from the scales of a dragon as he winged his way towards them.

"Tell me what you're thinking," Arya asked softly.

"Hmm?"

She smiled, although he didn't see it – he sensed it. "Your face goes all serious when you're thinking and you frown too. Tell me what you see when you stare into the river."

"Just … remembering …" he said finally.

"Good times I hope." Arya murmured her voice hushed against the great blackness around them. "Although it's hard to tell – you look so solemn when you think."

Eragon smiled this time, "Contented times," he said softly. She seemed to understand he meant the island because she didn't ask for more detail. While he hadn't been unhappy there, hidden out in the east, he hadn't been happy either – contented for the moment but growing increasingly restless as each year passed without word from Alagaësia or any hatchlings. He supposed it was only going to be a matter of time before he returned; there was simply too little happening where he'd chosen to settle down.

"Will you stay?" Arya asked after some time. "Once this is all over … will you stay? Or will you leave again like before and abandon everyone who loves you?"

"I don't know," he admitted quietly. "I don't know what I'll do …"

Arya seemed to be wrestling with something and when Eragon looked at her she caught his gaze and held it. "If," she began, "if someone … asked you, would you stay?"

"Someone?"

She looked away, staring resolutely at the silver river. "Me," she murmured finally. "If I asked you to stay, would you?"

Eragon thought about it, "What if I asked you to come with me?"

Arya closed her eyes and sat forwards, lifting her head off Eragon's shoulder and his arm dropped from her waist. "I don't know," she said finally. "I … I don't think I could leave. What if something happened – something like this? And we were too far away to help?"

"I came back," Eragon muttered. "I came back when I was needed."

Agitation overcame the elf. "But there was no need for you to leave in the first place!" she snapped at him over her shoulder and her irritation echoed into the night causing soft calmness to become fraught with tension.

Eragon sighed. "Perhaps," he admitted.

Arya hadn't expected him to give into her so easily and glanced at him, a frown on her face. "Then why did you go?" Eragon looked up into her eyes and saw the unspoken question she wanted to ask him; _why did you leave me?_

"I … I …" he frowned and tried to put his reasons into words. He'd explained years ago but not well enough, even for his own satisfaction. "I needed to give the land chance to heal. To recover from Galbatorix and all he had done. To do that, I had to go. If I had stayed then Nasuada, Orik, Orrin and even you would've turned to _me_ when something cropped up that needed sorting. I had to let you help yourselves otherwise you'd depend upon me and what I represent too much and what I was would've been destroyed. As it was Nasuada had too much a hold over me – but at the time it didn't matter so much because I was too young and inexperienced to be the Rider I was meant to be."

"So you left."

"So I left. The Riders were apart from the governments of their races. They were the watchers and the guardians and faced the dangers and problems that ordinary men could not face. I had all but destroyed that in the war by swearing fealty to Nasuada and thus saying that she had the power to order about a dragon and Rider, which was not meant to be. Oromis was the only one who had that authority but I did not understand that until after I had sworn the oath. I left because the people of Alagaësia had to learn to govern themselves successfully without the Riders and I left to protect the Riders yet to come. If I had stayed then what we stand for would've been reduced to nothing more than glorified bodyguards of rich lords and petty kings."

Arya was sitting across from him, her back to the river, but in her eyes was the look of one who finally understood and accepted it. By the glow of the moon he saw her smile and found one lightening his lips to match hers; she would not ask him why he chose to leave again.

"If I had known …"

"You would still have stayed," Eragon said quickly. "Because you felt you owed it to your mother to at least _try_ and be queen …"

Arya looked down at her hands, "I guess we all feel we owe it to our parents to follow in their footsteps, even if the path we've chosen to tread leads away from theirs."

Eragon shrugged and winced, pressing his right hand over the gash in his chest even though it was the one beside his shoulder blade that hurt most. Arya crawled over the grass so she once more sat beside him and took his hand in her own, lacing her fingers through his. "You're a fool," she told him "but a brave one."

"Bravery is just a nice word for stupidity."

Arya's face twitched into a smile. "A word that aptly describes you then."

"I suppose," Eragon agreed grudgingly, gazing into Arya's eyes and only vaguely aware that she was staring into his own. He wrapped his arm around her again and she once more rested her head against his shoulder as Eragon laid back on the grassy bank, looking up at the silver moon above them while the stars kept watch, whispering and twinkling among themselves. "I'm meant to be keeping watch," he said as his eyes drifted shut and Arya shifted beside him so her body curved to fit against his.

"No one's going to attack us," she murmured, kissing his cheek.

"… guess not …"

Naturally, they were both wrong.

* * *

><p>AN : _of course they're both wrong. falling asleep on a moonlight river bank in each other's arms ... of course someone's going to attack them. Moments of romance are always spoiled by violence, so obviously somebody is going to attack them; question is who?_


	32. The Spine

**The Spine**

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><p>Eragon felt like he had only just closed his eyes when the air of ambush wafted over him. There was a moment or two of confusion as his befuddled mind strove to make sense of what his reflexes were saying and it was only out of sheer instinct that Eragon blocked the sword with the hilt of the knife Arya had hidden under her shirt. He had felt the hilt digging into his side and only when the air of danger had arrived had Eragon been able to work out what it was giving him a nasty bruise.<p>

Snapping his eyes open and letting out a yell that was both mental and physical, Eragon gritted his teeth and cursed as his palm began to sweat; the sword was being pressed ever closer to his throat and the knife was barely long enough to reach a man's heart let along block a sword stroke. But his cry had woken both dragons and Arya, who rolled to the side as the sword owner quickly made to lunge for her with his blade, giving Eragon time to kick the man in the groin and scramble towards the dying fire for Brisingr.

Both dragons were roaring indigently as they got to their feet, Saphira knocking aside a young sapling to the ground as she flared her great wings. Eragon scrambled over to the fireside and grabbed Brisingr while behind him he heard the sounds of clashing and clanging that could only mean either Arya or Oromis had reached their own swords before him. Staggering to his feet, Eragon drew Brisingr and whirled around to find the silver night alight with dragon fire. Saphira and Fírnen had exhibited their frustration at being ambushed by letting great tongues of fire bathe upon the grass and shrubbery beside the river.

It was in the midst of that confusion that Oromis woke, instinctively drawn his blade and charged towards the figure Eragon had been retreating from. Eragon rushed forwards to help, yelling wildly as he did so, but sending his thoughts to the others; _run!_ Oromis ducked under the wild swing from their ambusher and nodded towards Eragon as he darted between the flames and out of sight. Saphira took off into the air and sped away west, which was the direction Eragon thought Arya had disappeared in.

Catching the sword on the edge of Brisingr, Eragon gave a good hard shove forwards hoping to unbalance his enemy. They fought on through the fire and the smoke, but the light was blinding in the darkness and so it was several minutes before Eragon was able recognise who he was fighting. He had thought it was the firelight, but the eyes were maroon and hair red as blood. When he next blocked the sword, he saw the wire-thin scratch along its blade – Durza.

In all fairness, Eragon shouldn't have been surprised. But with everything that had been happening since he'd come back from the east, Durza's resurrection had somehow slipped his mind … like so many little details such as keeping an eye on Murtagh and a hundred and one other things. Fírnen was busy trying to set the Shade alight but having no such luck and nearly burning Eragon to a crisp instead.

As Eragon whirled Brisingr round and tried to get in past the Shade's defences enough to pierce his blackened heart, he said tauntingly; "How did it feel? To get killed by a weakling human boy?"

Durza snarled and whipped his thin blade across Eragon's chest. He had to jump back a step to avoid it, and nearly lost his balance on the edge of the river bank. "A pain you will soon feel," he said. "When I rip from you your heart!"

Eragon swiped at Durza's legs and said, pointing to his chest, "Murtagh's already tried and failed. What makes you think you'll do any better?"

The Shade let out a howl as he dug his thoughts like jagged ice into Eragon's mind. He threw up his defences – endlessly repeating some drabble he'd made up on the island when he and Blödhgarm had practised. _Trees grow tall, trees grow small, trees grow wide and trees grow thin …_ on and on he kept repeating until Durza let out a howl and suddenly, abruptly, withdrew. He jabbed Eragon in the stomach with the point of his sword, causing the Rider to leap backwards in order to avoid getting skewered. His foot slipped on the edge of the river bank and before he had time to prevent it, Eragon fell into the river with a splash that rocked up over the edge and doused out some of the fires.

Fírnen fished him out. He sprang into the air and wafted over the river, heading further and further downstream as he reached out his thoughts to find Saphira's Rider. _I'm here_, he said as he surfaced, taking great gulps of air into his lungs, the weight of Brisingr and the sheath dragged him under again and it took all his strength to keep from sinking straight down to the river bed.

_Grab my tail_, Fírnen said in the back of his mind. _I'm a little way downstream from you … get ready._ The dragon's voice felt like it was coming from a long way off; Eragon's inability to swim to the surface was starving him of air and he began to see black spots in his vision – though it was difficult to see anything in the murky river. How he was going to spot Fírnen's tail was anyone's guess, but Eragon opened his eyes wide as he could and concentrated on not blacking out and not panicking. He somehow managed to sheath his sword, which made things a little easier to manage although now had him off balance.

Eragon did miss Fírnen's great big tail in the water, but thankfully the current carried him right into it, taking all the wind from him and causing Eragon to take an involuntary gulp of what he needed to be air but was actually water. He coughed and choked, but only succeeded in taking more water into his lungs … his head was spinning and he felt panic creep into his soul … by sheer instinct he grabbed hold of one of Fírnen's tail spikes as the dragon lifted his tail out of the river. He looked up and saw the surface coming nearer and felt Brisingr slip from his fingers to the depths of the Anora River. By sheer willpower, Eragon managed to stay conscious as Fírnen draped Eragon down on solid earth beside the river.

Retching and coughing, it took several long minutes for Eragon to recover, although his entire body shook and trembled with the shock and the aftermath of panic. Rolling onto his back, Eragon stared up at the stars which winked and seemed to wriggle with relief that Eragon was alright – shaken and disturbed – but alright. A cool breeze snaked along the path of the river and chilled Eragon to the bone, despite it being the height of summer.

Fírnen nudged him gently with his snout. _Come on … retrieve your sword and we can go back to the clearing. Maybe we can work out which way the others went when we get there._

"West," Eragon gasped. _I saw Saphira fly west … I think Arya went that way too._

_At least they're together._ Fírnen seemed to relax at that thought and Eragon did too – Saphira and Arya would look out for each other just as well as he and Fírnen would. _What about Oromis?_

Eragon sat up and thought about it, his gaze falling upon a large weathered maple tree. Sighing he reach out with his mind and drew from the tree enough energy to revitalise himself; in comparison, the tree was hardly diminished in strength, but Eragon was able to crawl to the river bank and cast a couple of spells for finding and retrieving. After a few moment, the surface bucked and rippled and Brisingr burst from the depths with a shower of droplets. Eragon reached out his hand and took hold of the sword, severing the magic in the process.

_I'm not sure, I think he went south, onto the plains._ He got to his feet, wincing because he'd twisted his ankle in the fall and limped over to where Fírnen sat watching him with is yellow-green eyes. _But it's Arya and Saphira that worry me most; they went into the foothills … and no one travels through the Spine lightly and especially not to escape a Shade._

Fírnen waited until Eragon had buckled Brisingr round his waist and clambered up to sit in the junction between his shoulders and neck. _You frequently traversed the Spine in your youth, _he pointed out.

_That's because I never presumed to understand or know the mountains. I respected them for their mystery and their wonder and I never claimed to know it all. Every time I did that, the mountains produced some inexplicable feat just to remind me that I was an intruder … though I always did feel like they respected my respect … but that just doesn't make sense._

_Not really,_ Fírnen agreed as he let the wind waft him back upstream to the clearing where they had settled for the night. _But why did you tell us all to run?_

Eragon scratched his chin – noting he was due a shave – and shivered as the wind cut through his wet clothes. _Because Durza had the element of surprise on his side, surprise and chaos. You and Saphira created the perfect setting for his ambush when you set everything alight …_

_How would you like your rest so rudely interrupted?_ The dragon growled.

_My rest was rudely interrupted_, Eragon reminded him, _but your actions also helped Saphira and Arya and Oromis to escape before the Shade could see where they'd gone._ Fírnen was silent for a while, and Eragon looked down at the silver river not realising how far the current had swept him away from their camp.

_What did he mean when he said you'd soon feel his pain when he rips your heart from you?_

Eragon wasn't sure, but something in the way Durza had sounded, so gleeful when he'd spoken, told him it wasn't likely to be in a literal sense. And he didn't want to dwell on it, yet he knew he had no choice if he was to stop the Shade and prevent the fiend from causing havoc, chaos and misery as he was wont to do. Fírnen dropped to the ground at their camp, the fires had died and the ground smoked with ash that made Eragon cough and his eye water. He dismounted, looking around for any of their belongings which had been left behind; he took advantage of the clothing to change out of his wet and sodden ones in to clean warm ones. Then he saddled Fírnen, and spotted the hilt of Támerlein half buried under the blackened remains of a sapling.

He dug the sword out and closed his eyes. Fírnen looked at the blade over his shoulder and felt the same sense of dread from the dragon that he felt; _she's unarmed._ Unarmed and running through the Spine while a Shade potentially gave chase … even if Durza _wasn't_ chasing her, there were many and plenty perils in the mountains that made venturing in them unarmed foolish and suicidal. _Saphira is with her_. Eragon clung to that thought as it came to him. _Saphira will look after her._

_As I shall look after you_, Fírnen snorted. _Or at least, I'll tell Arya and Saphira I've looked after you … according to them you need constant watching …_ Eragon bound Arya's sword and the few belongings he'd scavenged to the back of Fírnen's saddle before clambering up and securing himself. Fírnen leant back on his hind legs, taking hold of Saphira's saddle in his forepaws, and sprang off the ground into the cold night air. There was little point in searching for the others; by now Oromis, Arya and Saphira would be miles and miles away in any direction. Logic dictated that the best course of action would be to make their way to Carvahall, hoping the others will meet them there.

Eragon thought he'd need to direct Fírnen, but he soon learned that he and Arya had make frequent visits to the village. _It's not so much a village as a small city, _Fírnen snorted in amusement. _Your childhood home … I doubt you'd recognise it._

_I'll always recognise Carvahall._ He said. _If nothing more than by the people within the walls_.

Fírnen had chosen to fly over the mountains, rather than head south until they reached the mouth of Palencar Valley. They were veering round the mountain edge when a blast of fiery magic erupted from beneath the tall trees that made up the forest. Fírnen was able to swerve and avoid the fire ball and Eragon leaned as far as he could out of the saddle to squint at the darkness below, looking for where the magic had come from.

Another fireball burst from the canopy, but this time Fírnen wasn't so lucky; the magic smote him on the underside of his left wing and the dragon spazamed, roaring in agony. He tucked his wings in close and dived towards a small glade a good mile or so from where the magic in the tree was erupting. The ground was coming up to meet them fast; Fírnen waited until the last possible second before spreading both wings to prevent their bloody and painful deaths.

Eragon could not feel his agony but it didn't take much to imagine it; Saphira had been dealt enough wounds and inflictions for him to understand that it _hurt_ when the wings were injured. He slid to the ground, hurrying over to Fírnen's left side to inspect the damage. Though it wasn't his dragon, it made no difference; Eragon did not want him to suffer any more than necessary. _Show me,_ he commanded the dragon. Fírnen tentatively lifted his wing, only to lower it quickly again as he snarled and snorted with pain. _Let me help_, Eragon soothed.

In the dim light from the moon and the lightening sky, Eragon was able to get the gist of the damage which had been caused. A large area of his under wing was raw and bloody from a horrific burn; he was glad of the low light because he couldn't see what the wound looked like. He examined the injury with his mind, using several spells of healing and growing and soothing which required added strength from Fírnen himself and the forest. It was lucky Eragon didn't need to see it all to be able to heal it. _Thank you_, the green dragon murmured, _you are powerful indeed, Firesword_.

_The trouble with being powerful is someone is always going to try and challenge you_.

Eragon slumped to the ground, leaning against Fírnen's forepaw for support. He felt drained from the magic required to heal the dragon, the magic he'd had to cast to retrieve his sword and his near drowning in the river. Perhaps it was safe enough for the two of them to have a little reprieve where they were … rest a little while before resuming their journey to Carvahall. Fírnen nudged him with his snout. _Last time you thought that, the Shade paid us a visit._

Agreeing, the Rider got to his feet and stretched, trying to work the kinks in his muscles lose. It was as he was stretching that he heard the unmistakable sound of a twig snapping; as if someone or something had just trodden upon it. Eragon froze, his hand wrapped round the hilt of Brisingr which was already partially drawn – Fírnen had gone still, his eyes darting around the glade and his nostrils flaring as he sniffed the air. Eragon was not fool enough to dismiss the sound as an animal – they were too close to the magic fire bursting up from beneath the trees and whoever it was must've heard Fírnen's roar when he'd been hit.

When the attack came, it was swift and silent. If Eragon hadn't been tensed and poised, Durza would've overpowered him. As it was he was hard-pressed to fend off the frenzied and almost reckless moves from the fiend. While Eragon fought with his sword, Fírnen attacked the Shade's mind – helped somewhat by Eragon – and an ugly snarl fixed itself upon Durza's white face. He bared his teeth, every one sharpened to points, and fought Eragon in the glen while Fírnen ruffled his wings and crouched ready to pounce should the opportunity arise.

Durza was fighting as an animal would fight if he'd just had his prey taken from him; with fury and animosity that showed no mercy or even reason. Taking deep breaths, Eragon expelled all thought as he cleared his mind into the icy calm that allowed him to fight on instinct and gut rather than by what he saw with his eyes.

The Shade was laughing, a manic howl that scattered birds from the trees and sent foxes into their dens. Trees and bushes were obscuring Fírnen from view as Eragon and Durza pressed each other deeper into the forest. _Fly!_ Eragon thought, _get to Carvahall and I will meet you there._

_But – _

_Gánga!_

Eragon ducked; Durza's sword bit into the trunk of the tree he'd backed Eragon up against. Eragon launched himself at the fiend's waits and the two of them went crashing into the dirt, blades forgotten, as they wrestled and pounded one another with their fists. Kneeling over the Shade, his hands clamped firmly round his throat, Eragon found himself stuck; if he carried on then Durza would disintegrate to terrorise another day, yet he couldn't reach his sword and didn't think he'd reach it before Durza grabbed hold of him if he let go.

"I … have …" he choked and scratched Eragon's hands and face with long fingernails. Eragon shifted the Shade round, back towards the tree where Brisingr lay abandoned. Durza choked out more words, evidently trying to find a way to get to Eragon – yet he still had that mirthful glint in his eyes and a satisfied grin plastered on his face. As if nothing Eragon did mattered because Durza had already beaten him, as if the Shade no longer cared if he died a second time at Eragon's hand because he'd already seen to it that Eragon lost. Ignoring Durza, Eragon managed to drag the fiend within reach of Brisingr, his hands still locked around his throat and still slowly but surely squeezing the life from him. "Taken … your … heart …"

Eragon looked sharply down at him. Durza leered up at him, triumphant. Working his jaw furiously, and hating the Shade more and more by the second, Eragon slammed his elbow into Durza's face. He let him go and yanked Brisingr up off the ground to lodge it firmly and truly in the heart of the fiend. Durza's eyes bulged and he gasped, choking on air; he fixed Eragon with a satisfied look of pure hatred and said; "You don't know it yet … but you've already lost." Cracks of light appeared in the white face; turning away and flinging his arm across his face to shield his eyes, Eragon heard the soundless explosion and heard the echoing howl of madness as Durza once more entered the void … hopefully for good this time.

Wearily, Eragon looked up at the stars as he cleaned and sheathed his sword. If the paling was anything to go by, daybreak was not far off … and he was alone in the Spine with nothing but his sword and the clothes on his back. Carvahall was the northernmost point of Palencar Valley, and he knew that they'd camped roughly half way between the Anora River leaving the valley and reaching the sea. With any luck – and if the maps were accurate – he'd reach the edge of the mountains in three days' time, where he'd emerge close to Therinsford.

As he set out in the direction he was pretty sure was west, Eragon wondered how the others were faring; Saphira had been born in the Spine and knew her way around from Eragon's memories and her own. But Oromis, Arya and Fírnen were strangers to the forest …

_You don't know it yet … but you've already lost_. What had Durza meant?


	33. Blasts From The Past

**Blasts from the Past**

* * *

><p>Eragon arrived at the gates of Carvahall – since when did Carvahall have gates? – just as the sun was setting over the peaks of his childhood mountains. In the distance lay the trail he'd walked that fateful hunting trip where he'd stumbled upon Saphira's egg and everything had changed. Fírnen was right; Carvahall could no longer be called a village … the dirt tracks and run-down huts he remembered had been replaced with straight roads and stone houses; a sprawling mass of buildings that had spilled – unintentionally Eragon thought – over the river and onto the opposite bank. A thick wall of quarried basalt ran the perimeter and large gates of polished pinewood stood open beneath a wide vaulted archway. As he trudged through the opening, Eragon saw a portcullis suspended, ready to be lowered should the situation arise.<p>

Carvahall had learned its lessons well, Eragon thought grimly.

"Oi! You there! Stranger!" Eragon halted at the shout. "What's yer business in Carvahall?" the voice demanded arrogantly.

Turning to face the man, Eragon said mildly; "My business is my own."

The soldier drew himself up importantly and gripped the shaft of his spear while behind him others busied themselves with closing the large gates for the night. He had black hair and blue eyes; hair was poking out from the top of his tunic yet he was cleanly shaven. "I don't liak yeh attitude."

"And I don't much care for yours," Eragon told the soldier pleasantly. The solider made to hit Eragon in the stomach, but Eragon caught the blow on Brisingr's hilt, battering the weapon out of the soldier's grip. When he made to reach for his short sword someone chuckled in the crowd around them and spoke in a voice Eragon recognised at once.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you, Captain Falbert. Unless you think you can cross swords with Eragon Shadeslayer and live that is … by all means, go ahead and fight him if you're sure you are the greatest swordsman ever to have walked this land …" Eragon watched Captain Falbert's eyes dart between Eragon and the speaker, and then very slowly he lifted his hand away from the hilt of his sword.

"Wise move," Eragon said coolly.

Falbert glared at him. "How can I be sure you is Eragon Shadeslayer. Any man can walk around claiming to be someone different to who he really is."

Angry overwhelmed Eragon for a moment, he took a step forwards and grabbed Falbert by the collar of his tunic, lifting the man off his feet so the tips of his boots brushed the floor. "I could throw you over that wall with little effort if I wanted," Eragon told him quietly. "Would you like me to prove it?"

The captain was shaking his head, "N-no … no …"

Eragon let him drop to the floor in a heap and turned away. Horst the blacksmith stood at the forefront of the crowd, staring at Eragon with an eyebrow raised and one thumb hooked over his belt. Eragon shrugged and Horst broke out into a smile as he strode forwards to embrace Eragon in welcome. Horst's hair was in the process of turning grey and his scraggly beard looked touched with frost, but as he gave Eragon a one-armed-hug, Eragon could tell his strength was no less diminished, even if old age had taken its hold on Horst.

Horst led Eragon through the streets to the modest castle that had been built for Roran. "Arya not with you?" he asked.

"No. Why? I thought she was with Saphira?"

Horst frowned, "No … Fírnen arrived eight days back and told us what had happened. Saphira got here the following day saying she thought your teacher was with Arya. But Oromis turned up five days back alone saying that he had thought _you_ were with her."

Eragon swore. "I have to go look for her," he said already half turning to march back out into the forest.

"How?" Horst asked pointedly, holding out an arm to stop him. "You look dead on your feet and you know well enough not to go wondering into the Spine lightly – and especially not at night." At Eragon's stony look the blacksmith sighed. "At least wait until morning," he reasoned. "Saphira and the others will want to see you – besides," Horst added as an afterthought, "Arya may well show up soon enough. Could just be it's taken her a little longer because she doesn't know the mountains like you do."

But he sounded doubtful. Horst knew, just as Eragon did, that if you took care and were sensible then traveling on foot through the Spine to Carvahall shouldn't be perilous unless you were either stupid, arrogant or unarmed. And they both knew that Arya had visited often enough to know her way around even if she was a stranger to the mountains. If she didn't turn up by tomorrow then chances were that something had happened; something had prevented her from reaching Carvahall.

Horst placed a consoling hand on Eragon's shoulder. "The more you worry, the worse it'll seem … have a little faith; it's hard to keep track of time in the mountains. You should know that better than most."

All the same, as he strode beside Horst, Eragon couldn't keep that niggling sense of doubt that began to grow, threatening to overwhelm his senses and his reason. _What is wrong with me?_ He thought quietly, _why does not knowing send me into a panic that forsakes all rational action when ration is what is required in such a circumstance?_

He barely registered Horst leading him though a robust gate into the courtyard of Roran's keep where the gleeful shouts of Cadoc and Garrow came to Eragon as though through water. Distorted and muffled. Even Saphira's joyful exuberance at his appearance felt dulled despite their connection of mind and heart; all he could think of was Arya and what had happened to her to cause her to be so late. Eragon stared blankly at Oromis as the old Rider admonished his treatment of the Captain Falbert and the elf eventually walked away shaking his head muttering about how pathetically short sighted a Rider became when it came to his (or her) istalrí.

Laying his head down to sleep one night about a week after he'd arrived in Carvahall, Eragon's dreams took on a clarity he hadn't experienced since the premonitions he'd had during the war.

_In a darkened grotto protected by trees that blocked the faint moonlight, four wolves circled a figure upon the dirt strewn ground. Bits of leaves and twigs scattered the floor while the wolves paced. They circled the figure on the floor, who was doubled over clutching a jagged wound in the side and panting from pain; blood had soaked a once white shirt and had stained the dirt being knelt upon by the figure, while the wolves paced round each other as though trying to scare off the others before they fought over their prey. A white crow streaked through the clearing uttering a cry of "Wydra!" The figure looked up at the bird as it perched in the trees like an observer from the beyond, black hair fell over a pale face yet eyes greener than emeralds shone with a determined force tinged with sorrow. Recognition shot through Eragon like blast of ice that pierced his heart._

Eragon sat bolt upright, drenched in cold sweat and panting as though he'd just run to the Ridge of Galdrí and back again. "Saphira!" he gasped, tumbling out of bed and scrambling to the window. Roran's keep was, unfortunately, not large enough to incorporate the girth of a dragon the size of Saphira or Fírnen.

_Little one,_ she had woken the moment he had. Lifting her head off the floor from where she was resting beside Fírnen.

"Did – did … did you see that?" he asked her as she held her head level with his window, although all he could see was one large sapphire eye and a lot of scales. Eragon was too upset to register he was speaking aloud.

_Eragon … it doesn't necessarily mean that –_

_Then what does it mean?_ He snapped angrily, _What of the other dreams I had like it back in the war? Did they not come to pass?_

_Yes …_ Saphira said slowly and patiently, _but not in the way we expected them to. Surely all our travels and lessons have taught you that the future _never _plays out in the way it was supposed to especially if you try to prevent what you've seen come to pass from happening._

Eragon turned and leant against the window sill. _You want me to do nothing?_

_What is there to do when there is nothing to be done?_

Shaking his head, Eragon stalked off back to his bed, staring up at the ceiling and doing his best to stave off dreams. Thus he remained until the sun broke the horizon, flooding the chamber Roran had given him with light though the warmth did not seem to reach him. It was in those precious few moments when the world is suspended in a breath of awe upon the arrival of new day; _Durza_. The Shade's last words again echoed to him, 'I have taken your heart … you don't know it yet but you've already lost'.

Had this been what the fiend meant? Was Arya the reason that Durza had been laughing up until the moment his black heart combusted? Had he done something to her … hurt her or – or … was Durza the reason Arya was missing? The more he thought about it, the more certainty gripped him that the Shade was, indeed at least part of the reason why Eragon, Oromis and the two dragons could not seem to find her or locate her, regardless of all the spells cast. Eragon had even tried scyring Arya, using her True Name as a way to bypass the wards she had erected to prevent such magic. But all he had found was nothing which only worried him all the more.

But as the sun rose higher and higher and the sounds of the keep wakening reached him through the open window, Eragon was positive that Durza was, in part, responsible for Arya's disappearance. He rolled out of bed and grabbed a fresh pair of trousers and linen undershorts before heading out of his chamber in the direction of the baths. The habit of washing each morning had been forced upon him during his apprenticeship to Oromis back in the early months of the war.

He encountered his cousin on his way back up to his chambers; Roran was stifling a yawn and his hair was sticking up in several directions. Eragon smirked. "Busy night?" he teased. Roran showed him the finger and Eragon snorted as they passed one another. Then Eragon smirked some more and paced back to the closed door, reaching out with his mind Eragon murmured some words in the ancient language and waited to hear the reaction. Less than a second later he heard his cousin jump into the pool-sized bath and then explode in violent oaths and curses. Fixing his face into a blank mask, he waited a few seconds before knocking on the door and opening it cautiously.

"Is everything alright my lord?" he said.

Roran had wrapped himself in a towel and started spluttering when he saw his cousin. "You – you little – you … _utter_ … I – I …"

Eragon left the room before Roran could throw something at him – and the only thing Roran appeared to have to hand was the towel which was covering his modesty. Roran's curses followed him down the corridor, many of which involved how his father had dallied with some Urgal and if his mental capacity was sound. As he rounded the corner however, Eragon literally walked into Oromis and his master raised an eyebrow as if to say 'what have you been up to boy?' Eragon skirted round the elf and edged away through the keep before Oromis could deduce what this boy had been up to precisely.

Just as he reached the floor of his chamber, Oromis touched his mind. _Getting a little old for cheap tricks aren't we Eragon?_

_I never had the opportunity to play any while I was growing up ebrithil_, he replied meekly.

_But still – turning his bath water to ice … you have a streak of cruelty in you Shadeslayer._

Eragon shook his head and heard Glaedr chuckled in the back of Oromis's mind. _He is teasing you hatchling …_

Closing his mind, Eragon shouldered open the door to his room and kicked it closed behind him with a resounding thud. His few moments of mirth trickled away at the sight of Fírnen's yellow-green eye looking at him through the window. _I can't feel her …_

Tossing yesterday's clothes in a corner, Eragon strode over to the window and placed a hand on the emerald dragon's snout. _She's alive Fírnen_, Eragon said fiercely, _and I swear to you – no matter what it takes – I _will _find her, and I will find her alive._

_But … I cannot _feel_ her!_

Fírnen's distress radiated through to Eragon and for a moment it mingled with his own. They both tore away before it became too much for them. Speaking aloud Eragon said; "I think Durza knew something … before I killed him he said he'd taken my heart and that I didn't know it, but I had already lost."

Fírnen pulled his head back and roared into the air, startling the workers in the courtyard below and in the surrounding streets. _Oromis and Saphira talked about this istalrí business. Why her?_

Irritation and anger overwhelmed Eragon for a moment. "I didn't _choose_ this! You think I wanted it to be like this?" He shook his head and sat down on the edge of his bed with his head in his hands. "I … I don't know what to do Fírnen. If I knew where she was – if … if I knew who had her and … and – and …" he groaned and fell back on his bed, flinging one hand over his face.

Several times that day people came and knocked on his door; usually he stayed silent but occasionally he got fed up and told whomever it was at the door in rather explicit dwarvish to go away. He needed to _think_. He needed to shut away everything else and _think_ … where was she and was she even alive?

It took several minutes before he registered where he was and what he was doing.

Pacing back and forth in front of the exit to a large red pavilion while what sounded like rain hammered down upon the canvas and shouts and calls from an army recuperating after an ambush echoed from outside. He was wearing the fresh trousers he'd put on and boots. He had on the enamelled plates of armour the elves had given him for the Battle of the Barren Field and no shirt. The metal was chill against his bare skin and goosebumps prickled his right arm and across his upper chest and back. He clinked as he paced. Brisingr lay unsheathed upon the large circular table and seated midway around it sipping from a crystal goblet full of red wine was Queen Islanzadí.

Eragon stopped pacing and looked at the queen. "I'm dreaming aren't I?"

She raised an eyebrow at him. "I would've thought that was obvious," she said dryly. Eragon returned to his pacing, treading a dirt path in the rug – although why anyone would place a rug inside a tent was beyond Eragon because it was only going to get dirty and ruined. After several long minutes Eragon heard the chink of a glass being put down on the table accompanied by a low sigh. "Well … I have to say," Islanzadí murmured, "you finally appear to _look_ the part."

Halting in his tracks, Eragon glanced at the queen and then at the conveniently placed mirror standing in his path against the folds of the pavilion wall. Standing with a confused perplex expression was his reflection – however it wasn't the reflection of Eragon from the war. _That _Eragon had always appeared slightly uncertain of himself and as though he didn't quite fit the armour he wore – thrust into the destiny given to him without choice.

But the Eragon looking back at him wasn't uncertain or unsure of himself. He fitted his armour and he had a confidence about him that the other Eragon – the younger Eragon – didn't have and had lacked all through the war. It had been the confidence of Nasuada and the rest that led the Varden to victory. Eragon hadn't been confident. But looking at his reflection in the mirror, Eragon saw an air of confidence he didn't know he had in him.

Turning away from the mirror, Eragon saw Islanzadí looking at him with a wry smile, as if she knew Eragon hadn't seen himself how others know saw him until that moment. For the first time, Eragon truly – _truly_ – felt like a Dragon Rider; he looked how he imagined the Riders from Brom's stories had looked: powerful, courageous, wise, just and handsome. And the thing was … it didn't go straight to his head.

Knowing that the queen was probably smirking at him, Eragon took a seat at the table before he wore the threadbare carpet out completely. There were a thousand and one questions he wanted to ask but yet he held his silence because he got the sense that they were waiting for someone. He'd say that time ticked by, and yet something told him they were in a place beyond time – a place time could not touch; Eragon was sure if he stepped out the tent there would be nothing.

"Sorry I'm late," someone rumbled as they backed into the pavilion. "But you placed this in a very lost place Islanzadí."

The queen rolled her eyes. "Everywhere here is _lost_ Brom."

Eragon scrambled to his feet but Brom just placed a hand on his shoulder and shoved him back down into it. "Save your questions boy – there isn't much time. _She_ hasn't much time."

"She? Wait – Arya?" Islanzadí's jaw worked at the mention of her daughter. "You … you know where she is?"

Brom slumped into a seat so the three of them were at equal distance apart around the table while the imaginary rain pounded upon the canvas. Islanzadí leant forwards and looked Eragon in the eye while Brom cleared his throat. "Your guess that Durza – good work there boy; this time and the last."

"Thanks," Eragon mumbled.

"Well you were right. He did have something to do with her disappearance; watch." He waved his hand and a mist formed above the table. In its depth Eragon saw Arya running through the trees only to have the Shade catch her as he had caught her before … and then Morzan and Murtagh were there. Eragon couldn't quite tell what happened because the images in the mist were moving too fast, but he got the gist of events. Murtagh and Morzan chased Durza away and took Arya as their own captive; as the images died Eragon figured that was when the bursts of fire had emerged from the trees and cast Fírnen out of the sky.

Brom spoke again. "My time grows short boy so listen and listen well. Islanzadí will tell you what you must do – although it seems pretty obvious to me – but you'll need one of my books to help you first. It's on the fourth shelf from the wall near the fire place; the one with the purple cover and a picture of a thrice damned tulip on the front; it's called _Abr Sundavr un Garjzla_."

Eragon stared at his father. "How is a _book_ going to help me?" he demanded.

"I don't know!" Brom retorted in a tone to match his son's "I only know you need that book. Find my house – I placed enough wards around it to keep from burning so it shouldn't be hard." Outside in the nothingness, imaginary thunder and lightning crackled and shook to match the pretend rain. Brom heaved himself out of his chair. "That's my cue," he said gruffly. "Queen Islanzadí," he murmured, inclining his head and walking round the table to the exit.

Eragon scrambled out of his chair, not sure what exactly he was expecting. Brom paused at the exit and sighed a great sigh filled with regret and pain. "I never wanted any of this for you. I never wanted your life to be the burden it is, do you understand me? But … but somehow I could never imagine you being anyone other than who you have become … if there is one thing men remember me by then let it be that I was Eragon Shadeslayer's father. That is enough for me." The old story teller half turned and smiled at Eragon. "Oh – and that water trick you played on your cousin? Classic!" Before Eragon got a chance to reply, Brom stepped through the pavilion's exit as a flash of lightning gave false day in the dimness.

"Take a seat, Dragon Rider." Eragon jumped; he'd temporarily forgotten Islanzadí was there. Turning he looked at her and she at him and in those moments he got the impression that the queen was sizing him up and surveying his deeds like some colossal judge of fate, there to determine if he was fit for Arven's Palace or Guntéra's Halls. Eragon didn't take a seat.

"You're brother –"

"Half-brother," Eragon corrected harshly.

"As I was saying; Murtagh and Morzan wrestled Arya from Durza before you killed him. Why? I can only imagine they took advantage of the situation and figured she'd be an excellent source of information and failing that, nice bait for you." She said it as though Eragon should know all this already. "And – although there is no way of them to know this – because she is your istalrí you are naturally going to charge the front gates of hell itself single handed if you must."

"Oromis will be pleased," Eragon said bitterly, "he can say 'I told you so' to Glaedr now." He was growing agitated the longer he stayed inside the replica of Nasuada's pavilion … was he going to be told anything useful or just a load of crap that didn't make sense other than 'you don't have much time'? Probably not.

Islanzadí glared at him as though trying not to yell at him to take things seriously. "Where she is though … I do not know. You shall have to find that out yourself but you must hurry … Murtagh and Morzan both served Galbatorix and who knows what torment they will devise for my daughter. But whatever it is it will not be pleasant and it will be painf–"

"You think I don't know that!" Eragon suddenly shouted, tossing the contents of the table onto the floor in one crashing sweep. The suddenness and the violence of his act caused Islanzadí to jump. "You think that hasn't already crossed my mind? You honestly think I haven't thought about what he is doing to her right now?" Eragon shook his head and ran his hands through his hair, agitated and pacing unable to settle or to calm down. He glanced back at the other side of the table where Islanzadí was watching and he clenched his fists.

"Now, I want to be rash. I want to march over to him and fucking kick his head in but I know that is exactly what he wants me to do; and it's _hard_. Suppressing the need to _do_ something. But the reality of the situation is this: the world is more important. And you know what? I wish it wasn't. I wish I could stand here and tell you that she is all that matters to me. I wish I could tell you that I'll break down the very doors of hell if I had to. I wish I could tell you that there is nothing I wouldn't do for her – that my world would be nothing without her. I wish that I could promise you I'll keep your daughter safe from harm; that I'll always be there when she needs me and that I'll never let her down. But I can't. I have to save the world. I have to fight against evil against hate and ignorance and everything else. I have to put the world right and I can't let anyone or anything distract me from my duty. I wish I could be the man everyone seems to think I am," he glanced at his reflection in the mirror, "but the truth is I can't be ... I can't ever be because the world will always need saving. There will always be evil and bad things that need to be stopped and ... and I'm the only one who can do that – who can fight that. I wish more than anything that it is okay for me to love her like I do but the fact of the matter is that it's not. And it won't ever be. That is the curse of the Lord Dragon Rider: to be alone but for the dragon."

He unclenched his fist and kicked over a chair that got in his way as the queen stared at him in silence. He was angry that was certain. But not the rash and instant and reckless kind of angry – no. This was the deadly kind of anger; the deep fury that simmered underneath the surface waiting for the right moment to implode. He had to think, because thinking was the only way he could get her back alive without sacrificing himself and thus dooming the world. He'd spoken about marching over there and giving Murtagh the fight of his life, but in all honestly he knew that was all talk – for all his anger, he was not strong enough to come out of that kind of encounter alive or fend off capture. He had to be methodical about this – he had to plan ... he had to think and he had to, more than anything, keep calm and _not_ make any rash mistakes. If there was one thing he was certain of, it was that if he gave himself up for her sake, Arya would never forgive him.

Eragon slumped down in Nasuada's usual chair, ignoring and not seeing the look from Islanzadí as she sat in the chair at the opposite end of the pavilion. The sparse armour he wore clinked and the chill air caused goosebumps to rise up on his bare torso. "Who am I kidding?" Eragon muttered, looking at the crystal goblet in front of him. "The world means nothing to me without her."

The queen let out a sigh. "Finally." Eragon frowned, and looked up at her. "How long have you been trying to deny this truth, Bromsson?"

"What truth?" he asked dully as reality crept in on him. Islanzadí only smiled knowingly. "What truth!?"

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><p>AN : _yeah this is like 1000 words longer than all the other chapters, and I apologise for that _


	34. Man Of The Mountain

**Man of the Mountains**

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><p>In the instant Eragon's yell woke her from her easy dreams, which involved the knowledge of how comfortable resting with Eragon's arms around her was, Arya knew two things; they were under attack and Eragon had taken her knife. Funnily enough wondering how Eragon knew she had a knife strapped under her shirt took temporary prominence even as she rolled on instinct away from Durza's sword stroke. Then Fírnen snapped at her to sort her priorities out and she swatted the thought away like she would an irritable fly – along with Fírnen's smirk.<p>

Turning onto her back, Arya scrambled away as the Shade advance upon her with a gleam in his eyes and his sword pointed at her. Unfortunately there was a depression in the ground five feet from where Arya was at that moment, and as she reached the lip of it she lost her balanced and tumbled heels over head into the hole; at one point someone had decided to dig a pit along that part of the river bank without bothering to fill the hole up once they were finished with it. She hit her head and winced, the world spinning as Oromis appeared from nowhere to plant a blow at Durza's unprotected back. Snarling he whirled around and pressed Oromis away from the pit. Arya put her fingertips to the back of her hand and felt a warm sticky patch. Taking a glance at her fingers, she saw the tips were stained dizzyingly red.

_Get up!_ Fírnen was urging her desperately, _come on!_ It took three attempts for her to successfully clamber out of the hole and roll over the edge onto solid ground which was when Eragon's mental shout of _Run!_ reached her. Shaking her head, Arya threw a glance over her shoulder as she got to her feet, squinting through the flames to see Eragon dulling with the Shade, her heart stammering against her breast. Saphira took flight and sped over her head towards the foothills while Oromis had sprinted south – Arya wanted to help but she hadn't a clue where her sword was. She crouched down and tried to search through the fire for a glimpse of the emerald sword but the sound of someone falling into the river took her attention.

Fírnen jumped into the air and raced downstream with the current and Arya saw Durza turning with a nasty smile upon his white face. He gazed around at the fire and his eyes zeroed in on Arya. She got to her feet and made to draw Támerlein, but of course it wasn't there. Arya glanced down at the space her sword should be sheathed and up at Durza, "Yeah … bye."

Arya ran.

She didn't know where she was running to, she just ran. Ran as a deer ran from a wolf or a rabbit from a fox or a mouse from an eagle. The foothills of the Spine loomed ever closer and the thick tangle of forest should've been welcoming to her but wasn't; Du Weldenvarden Arya knew and could understand but the forests of the Spine? They were wild and feral and in no other circumstance would she run headlong into them unarmed and in the dead of night. But she couldn't let Durza catch her – perhaps it was knowledge of what the Shade would do if he captured her that kept Arya running long after she had worn herself out. Or maybe it was all that running Oromis had made her and Eragon do during the long months in Ilirea training.

She was deep in the foothills now, and the trees obscured the fading moonlight. Arya stumbled and collapsed into a heap on the forest floor, gasping for breath and struggling against the panic as it overwhelmed her senses and blocked out reason. _Durza … _her mind shied away in fear and her body trembled as though from exhaustion. Ration told her she couldn't stop and that she had to keep going but her body and her mind refused to listen, trapped in an cycle of self-inflicted tormented memories and fear.

Arya had never been scared before she encountered the Shade. Before then she had refused to let fear take a hold of herself and mastered the situation and her emotions. There must have been times in her childhood when she'd been afraid, Arya had reasoned, but over petty fears that she had soon mastered and controlled when it became clear her mother wasn't ever going to be the mother Arya remembered. Everything had changed when Evander died. But then then she had been captured by the Shade and fear crept into her heart and she had not the strength or the mentality to combat it. After Eragon rescued her, she learned quickly to hide how afraid she truly was or Oromis and her mother would never have let her leave Ellesméra … but she had found she grew afraid at situations that otherwise didn't affect her before. Curling into a tight ball on the ground, Arya closed her eyes tight.

"_Concentrate on your breathing," Oromis told her gently. "Ignore the rest and think only of calming your breathing as though preparing to meditate … that's it, gently now … in … and out … in … and out … in ..."_

Oromis's words echoed back to her and Arya did as he'd advised long ago in Nasuada's capital. After what felt like an age Arya uncurled from her ball and lay on her back having finally forced her breathing – and by extension her heart – into a steady controllable rhythm. Her panting filled the dense forest around her but with the control over her erratic breathing came control over her fear; it wasn't gone by any means, but it no longer overwhelmed her to the point where she could do nothing but cower in fear of the fear. Instead it lingered in the back of her mind.

But the cold truth dawned on Arya then; she was alone in the Spine, unarmed and lost. _Carvahall lies west, almost on a level with Osilon. If I head west then I should end up in the valley in a few days … and the dragons were planning on visiting Utgard so we couldn't have been camped north of Carvahall._ But even as she reassured herself with a plan and logic, Arya still felt fear prickling the back of her neck as she sat upright.

The forest was pressing in on her, as though bristling with outrage that she dared intrude upon the mountains. Getting gingerly to her feet, Arya brushed off her leggings and glanced around, trying to see if there was any kind of trail she could follow. Eragon had once told her that – for all its backtracks and long detours – the game trail was the fastest way out of the mountains. The only problem was, working out which way was going to lead her out and which would take her further into the Spine.

Arya glanced up at the sky through the leaves and branches, turning in a circle in order to find the moon, which was in the process of settling down for the day beyond the horizon. Once she found it, all she had to do – theoretically – was walk towards it until she found herself in Palencar Valley. It was as she was turning on the spot, locating the moon that someone hurtled out of the trees and grabbed her by the waist, sending them both crashing into the brush and dirt and down a slope towards a pool of muddy water – run off that had collected from the surrounding hills and hadn't drained away.

Struggling, Arya and her foe wrestled furiously for several minutes, exchanging punches and kicks and vicious jabs with elbows in the shallows of the pool. It was only as she wriggled from under her opponent's weight, kneeing him in the face and breaking his nose in the process, that Arya realised Durza had caught up with her. The panic she'd only just grappled into order flared up with a burst of adrenalin. The instant she won free she tried to run. Durza lunged forwards and seized her ankle, bringing her down to the dirt again with a great splash into muddy water. Kicking and jabbing and punching with all her might, Arya hit any part of him she could – but how was she to fight a Shade? He hadn't yet used magic against her and she was loath to use any out of fear of provoking him to do the same … Arya gasped as the Shade whacked her in the stomach with his elbow, winding her. He took instant advantage and pinned her right hand to the ground with his left while he sat solidly on her waist.

Panic was what kept Arya fighting. _No … not again … I will not go through it all again … no! I won't … no … no …_

Durza drew his wicked sword. Arya seized his wrist with her free hand and spent all her efforts in trying to disarm the fiend. Durza snarled and leaned all his weight upon his knee – which was pressing uncomfortably upon her thigh – and Arya yelled in pain. Durza managed to wrench his wrist out of Arya's slackened grip and hit her forcefully round the side of her face with the pommel. Dazed Arya could only see blinding white as the Shade hit her again and then pressed a sharpened edge against her throat; he was breathing heavily into her face and speaking – not that she really understood much of it.

"… pick up where we left off?" And as if to prove a point, he dropped his sword – careful to keep it out of her reach – and drew a dagger from his belt. Bending low over her, he seized hold of her left hand and prised open her fingers one by one so her gedwëy ignasia glinted in the moonlight. Durza turned his head slightly so his maroon eyes were fixed upon her face and a feral grin on his face showed pointed teeth. Then he drove the dagger through the heart of Arya's shining palm.

"_Fírnen!"_ She might have screamed – or howled. It was hard for her to tell. It hurt far more than it should have – as if Durza had somehow stabbed straight into the heart of her bond with Fírnen … through the agony Arya didn't notice the absence of the Shade's weight pressing down on her … she didn't realise she had curled into a ball around her hand – pinned to the dirt by the dagger embedded to the hilt in her hand. That people were shouting and cursing around her slipped by in oblivion along with the spells and magic tossed carelessly around over her head. Arya sobbed and cried and struggled; why _… why_ … did it hurt so much?

Somewhere overhead a dragon roared and something a kin to recognition flared in her chest. "Fírnen," she gasped. And that – more than anything – dragged Arya away from the total and unconceivable agony in her left hand. She limply rolled onto her back and gazed up at the canopy of leaves, noticing absently that some were charred and burning and that someone was fleeing through the forest away from her … and towards Fírnen … _Fírnen! Fírnen …_

Silence prevailed; all she could hear was her frantic heartbeat and the forest. Turning her head to the side, Arya couldn't see anything except the aftermath of a hazardous battle with magic. She twisted to look the other side but again saw nothing; gritting her teeth and taking a deep breath, she turned her attention to the dagger that was lodged in her hand and the ground beneath it. A few seconds of looking at it blankly and then a jolt of recognition: it was hers.

Perhaps the only thing she owned that had befitted a queen; her mother's golden dagger. The blade had been polished to gleam like a mirror and the hilt had been worked to resemble a bed of rose thorns, with a small ruby carved in the semblance of a rose for the pommel. A white leather was wrapped round the grip – worn and slightly stained from use. In all the weapon was about a foot long and no thicker than an inch or so in width.

And it was sticking out of the middle of Arya's now very bloody gedwëy ignasia. _Thanks mother. My inheritance is much appreciated. _Blood was staining the dirt underneath her hand too, where the dagger left her hand and stuck itself into the dirt. Arya rolled onto her side and gripped the hilt, flexing her fingers as she took a deep breath; the simplest solution was to pull the dagger all the way out in one clean movement – but the tip was buried in the dirt, and she didn't want to risk infection by pulling the soil coated blade all the way through her hand. So she was going to try and pull the dagger out of the ground without dislodging it as it stuck through her hand.

Deciding the task would be more manageable if she was kneeling, Arya shifted with difficulty into an awkward sitting position, Arya gripped the hilt again and took a deep breath as she prepared to free herself from the ground. A low chuckle caused her to yank the thing all the way out, elongating the initial wound and also spreading a nice layer of soil through the inside of her hand.

Gasping with more pain, dropping the blood-stained dagger, and clutching her hand to her chest, Arya looked up only to feel what little hope had remained ebb away like the blood leaking between her fingers. Murtagh kicked her onto her back. Arya's head thudded against the ground and her eyes smarted with impact. But the fingers of her injured hand brushed gently against the hilt of the dagger.

"I 'pose you're wondering why I waited so long before making myself known?" Arya didn't really care why. "But – well … I wanted you to taste freedom and then see your face when I snatched it away from you again." She had already figured as much out herself. "And then I was interested into what extremes you'd go to in order to free yourself." Really Arya couldn't give a damn the reasons Murtagh had. Eragon had already figured out Galbatorix had basically corrupted him beyond redemption so that there was no shred of decency or even rationality left in him.

Close to, Arya noticed that one of Murtagh's eyes had gone white and bloody and she saw a nasty slash running from the bridge of his nose to his hair line, crossing deeply over his eye. _Eragon must've wounded him worse than he realised when Murtagh ran him through_, she realised with satisfaction. "Nice scar," she said, alarmed at how breathless she sounded. Murtagh's good eye (the right one) bulged. "I hope it _hurt_."

He stood down hard on her left hand. Arya screamed and tried to roll instinctively onto her side in order to shield her hand from further harm, but someone else had placed a foot upon her upper right arm and was leaning more and more weight upon it to the point where Arya could feel the bone straining under the pressure. Morzan. Panic welled up inside her again and she trembled as Murtagh lifted the point of Zar'roc under her chin. _Do it,_ she thought, closing her eyes,_ go on. Do it. Just do it … get it over with … _"Do it."

A low chuckle from father and son only caused her to tighten her eyes closed although she felt Murtagh reposition himself over her as he held his sword ready to strike. Arya wondered whether he was going for a thrust in the heart – which would be preferable for its swiftness – or if he was going to stab her throat and make her choke to death on her own blood … trembling with undisguised fear Arya involuntarily tensed in anticipation of the blow. A hoarse yell and the swishing of a sword through the air … and the thud of it embedding itself in …

She peered through her eyelids; Zar'roc was standing point first in the dirt inches from her face … he hadn't killed her … why though? Her befuddlement was to be excused after all the blows to the head she'd suffered and the numerous injuries and the panic and wild chase through the Spine. Morzan was laughing heartily like one would at a good joke while Murtagh smiled cruelly down at her, his look frightening her more than Durza's did.

Murtagh shrugged neglectantly. "You're much more valuable alive … _Dröttningu_."

He and Morzan released her and walked away laughing as Murtagh called Thorn. Arya lay where they left her; she knew they wanted her to try and run and wasn't about to give them the satisfaction of trying to escape; chances were she was passing up the chance of freedom but the problem was she wasn't Eragon. Eragon would already be running by now – he knew these mountains better than anyone and would easily evade recapture. But Arya would be found and probably hurt and humiliated all the more because of it.

_Eragon …_ she thought quietly as she waited for Morzan or Murtagh to realise she wasn't about to get up and run. _Eragon … _her hand throbbed painfully as did the rest of her and Arya closed her eyes again, focusing on breathing so as to keep away the panic that was bubbling over. Instead of thinking about how scared she was, Arya thought of the evening she and Eragon spent by the Ramr River before Murtagh's note turned up.

"_So tell me, now that you have me all alone, what is the reason we are not returning to Ilirea with the twins and Blödhgarm?"_

_Eragon rolled onto his side, a small smile creeping up his face, "I didn't realise that I had to have a _reason_ in order to want to spend some time with you?"_

"_You don't," Arya told him, "I was just wondering if you did." She could tell her words had surprised him. When he spoke he spoke with caution._

"_And if I did have a reason, would that be a problem?" she glanced from the sky to him, seeing the weariness behind his eyes, trying to predict her response to his words. The fact that he was fiddling with her hands was a distraction he couldn't know was affecting her so much._

"_What sorts of reasons could or would there be?" She spoke softly trying to keep the teasing tones out of her voice and keep the conversation serious. Their hands were now firmly entwined and both seemed to be almost afraid of the topic they were discussing; forbidden territory always before but for some reason now Arya was glad they were speaking of it – even if it was in a roundabout obscure fashion._

"_Well … small reasons …" he cleared his throat, "and – um … maybe some bigger reasons too perhaps … if – if you wanted that is …"_

"_They'd have to be good reasons." Arya informed him smiling inside where he could not see._

"_Naturally," he was getting more and more confident the longer the conversation persisted without hiccup. But so was she._

_She placed a hand on his cheek and brushed it, the stubble pricking her fingers slightly and he turned his gaze up to look at her once more. "You need a shave," Arya murmured to him._

"_I was thinking of growing a beard," he confessed. The idea repulsed Arya somewhat and she wished she could just –_

A shout and a roar of a dragon's indignation shattered through her memory and destroyed the peace she tried to maintain to combat the fear. Her eyes flickered open and she cursed her own curiosity although she didn't much make sense of what she saw because it looked … looked like … like … _was the forest attacking Murtagh, Morzan and Thorn?_

No … no … that couldn't be right … wasn't … wasn't right at all … no she must've knocked her head too much or … or something and … but who was … _who was that?_ Arya swore she saw someone walking towards her in the chaos of the forest and her deluded mind and _… glowing white?_ Whoever it was crouched beside her and picked up her mother's dagger. For a wild moment she thought – or maybe hoped – he was going to stab her though the heart with it. A mass of shaggy hair hid his face but … to her stupor-filled mind's disbelief, he slid it under his belt and gathered her up in his arms. Was this to be believed? Was she being rescued by some … by an old … mountain living hermit glowing white … Alright she was definitely losing her mind here …

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><p>AN : _definitely loosing her mind alright ..._


	35. Utopia Valley

**Utopia Valley**

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><p>She came to in a soft bed and swaddled in warm blankets. Her left hand had been wrapped in a bandage and the smell of damp forest and stew snaked its way towards her through the darkness. Groaning and wondering where she was and how she'd gotten there, Arya sat up, wincing as her muscles protested and stretched the many bruises she'd received. Moving the blankets aside, Arya saw that she was still in the clothing she'd donned before setting out from Osilon to Carvahall – although they were covered in mud and blood stained. She swung her legs over the edge of the bed and placed her bare feet on the cold floor of what felt like a cave. It was then that her eyes fell upon a low three-legged stool; gleaming in the faint light of a candle floating – yes <em>floating<em> – by the opposite wall, was her mother's dagger, polished and cleaned as though it were fresh out Rhunön's forge.

The chamber was narrow – she could touch both walls with her arms extended to their full length – and Eragon would have to stoop the ceiling was so low. Again Arya wondered where she was and how she had gotten there. She glanced at the dagger, as if it should offer some explanation but it remained stationary and inanimate – like it should. Her stomach grumbled its hunger and Arya glanced around for some kind of exit or clue as to where she was; but all she saw was the bed, the stool and the rough walls of the cave flickering occasionally in the soft candle light. Sighing to herself, she perched on the edge of the bed and closed her eyes hoping against hope that what she remembered from her state of wakeful delusion-ness before blacking out was true and she was _not _currently locked up at Murtagh's mercy.

As if this thought had wondered free of her mind, footsteps echoed towards her getting increasingly louder as they came all the closer. A tingle of fear prickled the back of her neck and Arya seized the dagger from the stool – knocking it over in the process – and got to her feet in preparation to fight. Although she doubted she was in any fit state to fight. All the same, she held her mother's knife firmly in her good hand, which ironically was the hand she had injured so badly during the war and had referred to since as her bad hand, and took a deep calming breath.

A curtain was thrown aside and light flooded Arya's little niche, blinding her it was so bright and abrupt. As she flung up an arm to shield her eyes, Arya realised wearily that her captor (or saviour, she didn't know which yet) had obviously placed the dagger in the niche with her knowing that he could easily overpower her if it came to a fight because of the blinding light now flooding the corner of the cave. She expected to be roughly disarmed and bound but nothing happened. Wincing as her eyes adjusted to the light of day, Arya lowered her arm and squinted in the direction the light was coming from. A figure stood in a rough opening some twenty feet away. Behind him Arya could see treetops swaying in the wind and birds spiralling in the clear sky between mountain tops.

_Come eat, child of the forest._ The figure turned on his heel and walked out of the cave. Hesitating, Arya gripped the dagger firmly and then followed; the lure of food had her stomach thinking for her and she wasn't sure she was happy with that.

The floor was uneven and damp, as if wind had blown the rain in to soak the ground and spite those sheltering. A curtain of ivy and other crawling plants hung over the cave's entrance obscuring it from immediate view; Arya ducked underneath it and emerged blinking on a ledge overlooking a wide green valley, lush and bright in the aftermath of a deluge. She gasped in wonder for she had never seen the sky bluer or a forest greener – the mountains themselves seemed to glow and the snow capping the peaks glinted with supressed mirth. Everything seemed so much newer and brighter as though the world was fresh made and had not yet been tainted by time. Beneath the leaves some thousand feet below her, Arya could hear the calling of many animals and beasts that lived in this valley untouched by the outside word. It felt like nothing beyond the valley's boarders mattered much anymore, as if all that chaos was just a dream full of unpleasantness for now she was awake Arya realised that this was the real world and the rest nothing more than a dream.

The longer she stood watching the valley, the more the perils and urgency of what she had been involved in ceased to matter. She didn't forget – but she couldn't find it in herself to _care_ that much about it. Fírnen … Eragon … Saphira … they didn't need her did they? The valley was too perfect for issues of the outside world to take hold and have any weight or gravity because the idea of wrongness in the world was ludicrous so long as she remained in this valley. Even though she knew that staying in this paradise wasn't the right thing to do, the part of her mind telling her that was drowned out by the part that just wanted to stay. _You've done your part. You've saved the world … it's someone else's turn now …_ and the longer she stood the quieter her sense of duty got until it was nothing more than a dim murmur in the back of her mind.

"You must be hungry, älfa."

Arya turned away from the view towards the voice. A man stood in the shadow of a cedar tree; he had short-cropped grey hair and an untidily cut beard. His eyebrows were wiry and wild and his face tanned, lined, and kind but seemed to settle in a natural frown and expression of great irritation. He wore an assortment of garments; a long shawl and a pair of breeches that finished just below the knee; a leather hood that settled over his shoulders and a piece of sack-cloth that appeared to have head and arm holes ripped into it. His feet were enclosed in a pair of black shoes with a large silver buckle. A length of rope was used as a belt to stop the shawl from flapping all over the place.

"Come, sit. And eat if you will. Or starve. I don't care either way." The man plonked himself down beside a fire and prodded it with a stick as he inspected the food bubbling in a pot dangling over the flames. After a few moments, Arya wearily sat down opposite him, crossing her legs and keeping the dagger within easy reach. She expected her rescuer to speak, to launch into some explanation of what happened and why and how, but he said nothing as he stared moodily into the fire. He thrust a bowl of steaming stew in her general direction and retreated to the shadow of the cedar as he ate nosily, slopping much of his meal down himself. Arya ate in silence, picking out the hunks of meat and tossing them into the flames.

Finally, when she could stand the silence no more, her curiosity wanting and demanding explanations, Arya addresses her host. "What is this place?" she felt their surroundings was a good place to begin but the man across from her either didn't hear her or ignored her. "And how did you know where to find me? Why did you save me? Who are you? Was that you, making the forest come alive or did I –"

The man snorted in disgust, interrupting Arya's stream of questions. "_Make the forest come alive_. Pah! I'd of thought someone like _you_ would know already that the forest _is_ alive! Pah! You elves claim to know all yet you are just as ignorant as the rest!"

Arya frowned, "What do you mean?"

"And your stupid questions! Always seeking to know … why … when … what … how … where … why … why, why, why, whywhywhywhywhywhywhywhywhywhy …. _Whywhywhywhy why_ …"

"So you aren't going to tell me anything?" Arya asked. "Not even why you saved me in the first place? Not even your name?"

"You are tired. You will sleep now." The old man said getting abruptly to his feet and kicking dust over the fire, making it hiss.

Arya scrambled to her feet. "No I'm not!" she protested, yet the instant the man had said she was tired, weariness had crept upon her like a disease. "You have to at least tell me your name!" she insisted.

"I have to now, do I? I don't _have_ to do anything little princess."

Alarm shot through Arya, "How – how …?"

Snorting, the man regarded her with narrow eyes before rolling them. "I am Moot." He said. "And you are tired."

The world tipped alarmingly and when Arya next came to, she was back in the niche in the darkness with the floating candle and her dagger on the stool.

Groaning, Arya rolled out of bed, falling onto the floor on all fours as she winced while her bruises shrieked and her muscles winced. Picking up her dagger once more, Arya fumbled through the darkness in the general direction of the cave entrance. At the foot of the bed was a rough cloth hung over the opening of the niche blocking the light from the mouth of the cave. Arya ducked again under the curtain of ivy and found herself on the ledge overlooking a sea of lush trees. The leaves greener than she'd seen and the sky clearer and bluer than imaginable.

Moot was nowhere to be seen so Arya sat down on the edge and simply observed the day. From her vantage point she had a clear view of the birds circling and flying and dancing through the clear space above the trees but below the mountain peaks. Protected by the tall pillars of white stone capped with glittering snow.

She wondered idly how long she had been in this valley of utopia and if Eragon was looking for her. No doubt the others had all long since reconvened at Carvahall by now and of course she was not there. Where they searching the Spine for her or had Eragon been forced to accept that there were far more important matters to attend to? For all they had been through and meant to one another the simple truth was that their relationship – whatever it may be defined as – wasn't important enough to take precedence over everything else.

While she sat there Arya faced the long hard truth and accepted it. And it scared her, to know that she loved him as completely as she did, without reservation or doubt. Being in love, Arya reflected, wasn't something you could understand or something that you could even see happening. You simple wake one morning and _know_. Though it may take time to accept that fact, but a part of her had always known that she loved Eragon.

_Love. _But it was more than that. Saying 'I love you' didn't even being to cover what he meant to her … classifying what she felt for him as love felt like she was downgrading it; yes she loved him. But love wasn't enough – the word and all it meant could barely begin to describe or explain what she felt when she was with him. It didn't explain that need she had to protect him or explain that she was perfectly aware that he could take care of himself, and that she respected him for that. Love couldn't explain how he made her smile and laugh and how he drove her to near insanity with his recklessness. Love didn't explain how she lay awake at night unable to bear the thought that she could lose him. Love couldn't explain the rightness at having him by her side and her by his. Didn't explain how safe she felt in battle knowing he was watching her back just as closely as she was his. How she'd catch her breath when he glanced at her, or how her heart skipped when he said her name ... how anything instantly seemed a thousand time better when he walked into the room. Love wasn't enough. It was more than that. So much more than that. He was who she turned to when the world was at fault ... the person whose company she sought without realising she needed it. Love didn't explain why she was able to face the world again and again so long as he was with her. To describe it all as love ... the word alone wasn't enough – but it was the only one she had and so she had to try and make him understand that when she said it, it was so much more than just love.

It hardly registered the fact that the sun was setting and staining the tops of the trees gold and burnt orange.

"The world is beautiful. Do you not agree?"

Arya jumped. She would have fallen off the cliff if Moot hadn't grabbed her upper arm and held her steady. "I … er … yes." She stammered when she realised Moot was expecting a reply. "What is this place?" she asked, tentatively. Moot appeared in a better mood than the last time they had met and Arya wondered if she might be able to get some answers.

"The last place that is truly wild." He said sadly. "The only place left in this land where the taint of man and time does not stain … this," Moot spread his arm wide, "is Utopia Valley."

"Paradise," Arya murmured.

"Indeed." Moot agreed with a gentle smile. They lapsed into silence, watching the birds swoop over the forest and the sun setting lower behind the mountains.

"Why did you save me?" Arya asked in a low voice after a long time. The sky was turning blue and the stars were winking into existence.

Moot twiddled his thumbs. "That Boy-Wanderer you love," he murmured. Arya found herself blushing and was glad of the dim light. "I have felt his presence in these mountains from the moment he first stepped foot in them, and knew he was different to all the rest. _They _think they own the world – that everything is theirs and theirs to take. To destroy in order to build to kill in order to live … _they_ think they know the mountains; presume to understand them. The Spine cannot be understood. Doesn't anyone realise that! Not even I, who have tread these passes for centuries untold, understand the feral, the wildness of this most ancient of forests. But your Boy-Wanderer …" Moot looked at Arya with a shrewd gaze. "He … he never presumed to know. He understood that the mountains were in control and that he was the trespasser … he realised that to survive in the Spine one had to be weary of it and no assume all had been yielded. For that respect the mountains yielded some of their mysteries to him – enough so he could safely wonder through without coming to harm so long as he remained as respectful of them as they were of him."

Arya shivered as night drew in. "But that doesn't explain why you saved me," she protested.

Moot snorted. "That's because you don't listen. I saved you because I respect you Boy-Wanderer, and I respect your Boy-Wanderer because he earned the respect of the Spine."

"That … doesn't make sense," Arya informed Moot. "But I'll take your word for it!" she added hastily. Moot snorted again.

"Now I have a question for you, little princess," Moot said.

"Arya."

He turned and looked at her. "I beg your pardon?"

"My name," she explained, "My father named me Arya … and the 'Boy-Wanderer' as you call him – his name is Eragon Shadeslayer."

Moot's eyes widened as Arya said Eragon's name but other than that he remained impassive. "Eragon …" he murmured. "Now that is a name I have not hear in a _very_ long time …" but he failed to elaborate further. Clearing his throat Moot went on, "As I was saying; I have a question for you little princess Arya: why did you need saving?"

_How do you know I am a princess?_ Arya asked silently, but she explained to Moot why, exactly, she required saving. The explanation took longer than she'd thought because Arya had had to go back and retell Galbatorix's rise and the Riders' fall for the mountain hermit to fully understand the whys and wherefores.

"Hmmm …." Moot pulled out a battered pipe, rather like the one Brom used to smoke, and crumpled some leaves into it. It ignited without a spark and Moot took a long pull as he stared into space. Arya stared at her hands. Moot had not used magic to light the pipe. "Your Boy-Wanderer, you say he used some magic without using magic? Set the dragon alight and no magic or mundane means could put the fire out?"

Arya frowned, why was Moot focusing upon that part of the tale? Arya had only included it because Eragon had told her and it hadn't made sense. "Yes … why?"

Moot said nothing and then, "Did anything else happen? What of this rock he encountered and the voice that came from it. What did the voice say?"

"I never said the voice came from the rock."

"Of course it came from the rock!" Moot said impatiently, waving her statement aside. "Now what did it say? I presume Boy-Wanderer told you while you were cosying up together that night. Or did you stupidly succumb to the weaknesses of the flesh and drive all important conversations from your minds?"

It took a few moments for Arya to work out what Moot was accusing her of. "No! Eragon and I … we're not … I mean we haven't … no! I …" Moot raised one disbelieving eyebrow. "The voice said something about … Kuldrhjarta."

"Goldheart," Moot murmured in wonder. "So they aren't all gone then … interesting … I wonder … perhaps then … well it must be … but if they … well he of course … no … no there isn't … nope no other way … unless – but no … perhaps … ask no more …"

Arya sat and listened but made no sense of Moot's muttering. He continued muttering to himself and occasionally Arya caught the odd word or phrase but she didn't understand any of what he said. In the end she got to her feet and traipsed back to her niche in the cave and fell wearily upon the bed in exhaustion despite having done virtually nothing that day. It occurred to her then that she was hungry, but doubted Moot was with it enough to tell her where he stored his cooking things. As she fell to sleep there was a smile on her face; Eragon was indeed Moot's Boy-Wanderer, wandering into trouble and making her heart stop and stutter with love.

Moot appeared to be a man capable of great compassion and yet in the other extreme, a ruthlessness none other can match. It seemed Arya judged, to depend entirely upon his mood that day. Perhaps tomorrow she could find a stream or something to wash in … and see about healing the gash in her hand so she'd not need the bandage … And then she could contact Eragon … let him know she was alright and to stop worrying even though his worrying about her sent a warm tingle down her spine – but perhaps she wouldn't mention that last bit … Fírnen would be out of his mind in worry … and Saphira was probably no help … Oromis no doubt was conversing with Glaedr about some new teaching … and then Murtagh needed stopping …

But the more she thought about it the less she cared.

* * *

><p>AN : _Moooooooooot_


	36. Realisation

**Realisation**

* * *

><p>Oromis yawned widely and rubbed his eyes tiredly, peering at Eragon who, in contrast, was wide awake and – to Oromis at least – appeared to be bouncing off the walls. "Alright … tell me again; what, exactly, did they say?"<p>

Eragon resisted the urge to roll his eyes. The instant he had woken from his dream – if it could be called a dream – he had hurtled himself out of bed and run to his master's door, forcing the elf out of bed to listen to what he had just experienced. Saphira and Fírnen were listening through the open window. He had already recounted the dream at least three or four times now and was beginning to grow impatient. Arya needed his help.

Curbing his agitation, Eragon once again explained his dream. "I was in Nasuada's pavilion – the one she used in the war – and Islanzadí and my father were there … well Brom turned up a bit after me, but that's not important and –"

"Did Islanzadí say anything before your father turned up?" Oromis interrupted.

Eragon closed his eyes. What the queen had said before his father showed up wasn't important – couldn't his master trust his judgement on that? "Nothing … she just told me I finally looked the part of a Rider."

Oromis rolled his eyes, snorted lightly and gestured for Eragon to resume his tale.

"Brom just told me that I needed to find this book and said Murtagh had taken Arya. Islanzadí just kept repeating that she didn't know where they'd taken her …" he trailed off, thinking about how the dream had ended.

"And …?" Oromis prompted shrewdly.

Eragon shrugged, frowning, "It was strange … she said 'finally, how long have you been denying this truth?' or something like that …" he shrugged. "I couldn't get what truth I'm meant to have denied out of her though."

Oromis rolled his eyes as if it were obvious. "What about before that? Was that when you had your outburst about not needing her to tell you what Murtagh would be putting Arya through?" Eragon shrugged again and nodded. "Give me the gist of your rant."

Eragon thought about it, "Just about how I hate the fact that I have to put the world first … you know …"

"About not letting your heart rule your head? Hmm …"

_You did use the word love when referring to how you feel about her,_ Saphira chimed in.

_I did?_

"Did he now …" Oromis's eyes gained a gleam and he seemed to be fighting the urge to smirk.

"I don't know what I said," Eragon muttered in his defence.

Oromis waved that aside for the moment. "That's by the by … you need to find that book your father told you about while I try and think of all the likely places Murtagh would've taken your istalrí."

That jolted something in Eragon's memory. "Oh, they confirmed that Arya is my istalrí by the way … not that that's really important or anything … probably be better if she wasn't …"

Oromis gave him a long stare that quite plainly told Eragon to get lost; the old elf didn't appreciate before dawn wake-up calls, which Eragon though highly hypocritical since Oromis was very apt at giving such brutal wake-ups to others … namely himself. Closing the door behind him, he walked down the corridor towards the chamber his cousin had insisted he use (a highly spacious room with a vaulted ceiling and large full length windows that Saphira could stick her head through) where he grabbed some fresh clothes and departed for the baths.

After he had washed, Eragon went looking for Horst.

Being the sentimental blacksmith he was, Horst had, with the help of the inhabitants, drawn a map of the original Carvahall which had detailed labels of where buildings had been and the roads, streets, surrounding farms and the landscape as it had been before Eragon stumbled upon Saphira's egg. It was for that reason that Eragon hurried down the stone steps at the front of Roran's hall buckling Brisingr round his waist in search of the blacksmith as the sun peeked over the horizon.

If Horst wanted to stay hidden, the pounding of a hammer on anvil gave him away. Eragon rounded a corner between two tall houses and found himself approaching the top of the very hill Horst had first built his house upon. The smithy was a low open-aired structure with a roof across the street from the newly – or not newly built – house, a large open fire smoked in the centre of the workshop and Horst's eldest son, Albriech, was pounding upon a long thin rod of steel upon a solid anvil. The echoing of the hammer as its resonance sang from the metal echoed three streets back and was how Eragon had been able to locate the place. He waited until Albriech had paused before stepping forwards into view.

"Eragon!" Albriech placed his hammer down before dodging round the anvil to embrace Eragon in a warm hug. "I heard you'd come home – bit different to what it was, eh?" he grinned, gesturing at the city.

"Just a little bit," Eragon smiled, "although I think I can still manage to find my way to the bakery and the tavern just fine though; I don't think they've moved … mind you, neither have you for that matter."

Albriech shrugged. "There was always a good view from this hill … and no one disputed Father when he announced he'd be rebuilding our house where it always had been."

"It's hard to argue with your father," Eragon agreed. "It's actually your father I've come to see."

Albriech frowned then and glanced at the newly risen sun. "It's early Eragon – can't you wait and come back in an hour or two?"

"Why? We both know your father has risen before dawn every day of his life and will continue to do so until he's long past the grave."

Albriech shrugged and relented, pointing Eragon across the street to the house and muttering something about inconsiderate visitors. Ignoring Albriech, Eragon knocked firmly upon the door and waited; a minute later the front door was swung open wide and a girl with brown hair and large brown eyes frowned at him.

"Hope," Eragon said. "Naturally … I need to speak with your father."

The girl frowned some more. "Who are you?" she asked. Eragon raised an eyebrow, silently telling the girl she ought to know that already; Hope narrowed her eyes as she took in his elf-like features (including the new scar on the side of his head that had cut the tip off his right ear) and the sapphire blue sword at his waist. "You're him, aren't you?"

"If by 'him' you mean Brom's son then yes. I am."

"I meant Eragon Shadeslayer." Hope frowned.

Eragon rolled his eyes; "I need to speak with you Horst!" he called loudly over Hope's shoulder. "And I do not have time to tarry at the door debating who I am with your daughter!" For he had sensed both Horst and Elain lingering out of sight from the open door, not that they knew that since there was no way they could feel his thoughts brushing their consciousness'.

Horst appeared behind his daughter and stared Eragon in the eye. He felt a pang of guilt; it was early and most had only just sat themselves down for breakfast, but he needed to find the book his father mentioned, because the quicker he found the book the sooner he could find Arya. Every moment he wasted waiting for courtesy to allow him to intrude upon his neighbours meant that it was a moment longer Murtagh held Arya.

"What do you want?" Horst asked bluntly. "Why are you here?"

"Arya."

The blacksmith snorted slightly. "Still no word from her?"

Eragon shook his head.

Horst's annoyed expression lessened as he regarded Eragon with a shrewd look. Eragon tried to hold that gaze but failed; his emotions were bubbling beneath the surface and overwhelming his good sense, something Horst perhaps detected for he beckoned Eragon inside without another word. Hope was told to fetch some water from the well ("But the elves installed those water valves last month!") and Eragon directed to a chair at his kitchen table. Elain busied herself with something over the fire while Horst slipped into a seat opposite Eragon, who had let his head fall into his hands.

Before he knew it, he was recounting everything that had happened since his fateful dream at the start of summer almost six months ago now. For a weighty tale it didn't take him long to recount. By the time he had finished, Hope and Albriech both had joined them in the kitchen and Elain had set breakfast upon the table.

In some sense, Horst and Elain had been Eragon's second parents growing up; he had Garrow of course, but Garrow had always favoured Roran over Eragon without realising it perhaps, for no simpler reason than Roran was his own and Eragon wasn't. Horst and Elain however had treated Eragon – and Roran – no differently than their own sons. Sitting at their table somehow managed to wrangle out of Eragon how he had felt and been coping with the sudden influx of events that had been thrust upon him. More importantly, however, it allowed him to voice out the small issues regarding the evolving relationship between himself and Arya.

Something Islanzadí said to him suddenly made sense.

Elain chuckled slightly as Eragon drew to a close, roughly sketching out what had happened between emerging from his dream and arriving on their doorstep. "You are remarkably like your cousin," she said by way of explanation. "Not knowing what it is in front of you until it is gone. He sat at this table – where you now sit – when the Raz'ac took Katrina from him. And I'll say to you what I said to him;" Elain fixed him with a stern glare. "You had better deliver on every promise you make her or I'll have you turned away and remembered as an oath-breaker until the end of your days."

"You cannot threaten me," Eragon whispered. "You have no right – no tie to her whatsoever – to threaten me like so."

Elain sniffed. "Your Ridership has gone to your head."

Eragon stood up so abruptly he knocked his chair over and caused Albriech, Horst and Hope to flinch. Apparently Elain had been expecting it.

"I have kept every oath I have ever made – and seen those consequences through to the bitter end. Do you think my word worth so little?"

_Calm down won't you? Roran won't be able to invite us back if you blow up half the city because you can't keep a lid on your emotions._ Saphira told him gently. _She wants something from you – once you work out what that is then you can look at the metal-smith's map._

Eragon worked his jaw and glared at Elain. She looked him back coolly and he could now see in her eyes that Saphira was right. For whatever strange reason, Elain was testing him – though he couldn't fathom why … he kicked the fallen chair out of the way and stalked out of the kitchen. Seeking solitude in the sitting room at the front of the house, Eragon stared at his distorted reflection in the window panes. It was a few moments before he saw it was Brom looking back at him – or was it just the alteration by the woven glass that leant his own features to twist into a semblance of the old man?

_Sometimes it is harder to admit to something you have spent your time denying than fight an army of a thousand foes. Courage lies not in realising truth to yourself, but in speaking it aloud for all to hear, especially those that have known longer, perhaps, than you yourself have truly known._

He knew not where the words came from, but Eragon knew in his heart that they belonged to his father. A warmth settled over his agitation and he took a deep breath as he closed his eyes; Brom was right … screw that – _Blödhgarm _was right. And he had been running from it from the moment he had realised the full implications of what might become of it. Anyone else would not notice Elain standing in the doorway behind him – but Eragon's awareness was always taking in on a subliminal level what was happening in his surroundings. Opening his eyes, Eragon looked at Elain's reflection in the window pane; oddly hers was not a gruesome distortion like Eragon's was.

"Well?" she asked. "How am I to know you will deliver upon everything you have promised and not go running for the unknown as soon as adventure and excitement dissipates again?"

"Because I love her," Eragon murmured. It felt like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders as he spoke – as if he had stepped from the shadows into sunlight for the first time. And he knew that when people upon the street saw him, elf, human, dwarf and Urgal alike, would see only a man of honesty and truth. For in hiding that from even himself had he been hiding a part of himself from the world and thus concealing himself in a shroud of shadows that he had not had about him during the war. _That_ was why the likes of Fiolr and other diplomats had immediately lay the blame upon him when reports of renegade Dragon Riders moving north began to circulate. Because he had gone from honesty to deception when he left for the east almost seventeen years ago.

_Finally._ Saphira said dryly. _Now you do realise how much of a foolish fool you have been?_

_A foolish fool?_ Eragon asked. _So I am doubly a fool then?_

Saphira snorted. _Yes. A fool who is by far more foolish than any other ordinary fool._ Eragon could feel her humming in her throat though she was back at the compound. _Oh little one … we'll find her. I promise – to you and to Fírnen; we will find her._

Eragon looked out through the window as the sun climbed above the treetops; a respectable time to be out and calling upon neighbours. _I know._ And he did; in his heart he knew they'd find her because that was, ultimately, Murtagh's design … what troubled him was the state in which they would find her.

_To admit to something you have spent your time denying …_ where had that memory come from – for Eragon was certain that Brom had, at some point, spoken them to him. Shaking away the thought, he turned to find Elain watching him from the doorway; a small smile on her face.

"Although your cousin wasn't near as blind as you when it came to recognising what he felt and what he wanted."

Eragon shrugged, not willing to point out that even Roran would've had doubts if Katrina turned him away as bluntly as Arya had done to Eragon. Instead he apologised to Elain for disturbing them so early in the day and asked if he could see the map of Carvahall village Horst had constructed. Elain beckoned him to follow her and led him to a new room that hadn't been there in the original house; a respectable study where Horst was busy leaning over a round table where a sheet of parchment was rolled flat. Books and candle sticks held the four corners down.

"I'll leave you to it." Elain smiled as she closed the door.

Horst looked up at Eragon and studied him for a long moment, as if waiting for Eragon to start kicking off again. Eragon didn't. After a few minutes of uncomfortable silence, the blacksmith broke the silence; "According to your dream, Brom left a book you need in his house?" Eragon nodded. "Which, apparently, is still intact?"

"That's what he said," Eragon strode over to the table and looked down at the carefully drawn detail in Horst's map of Carvahall. The streets and houses all drawn as precisely as memory could recall; but there were gaps – unlabelled buildings that people couldn't quite remember belonged to whom, because some inhabitants had refused to leave with Roran and cross the Spine. "Gedrick had a tannery there," he said, pointing at an unlabelled building.

"Of course he did!" Horst muttered. He faffed about finding a stick of charcoal and carefully added to the map. "I knew he had one somewhere, but not where exactly."

Eragon scanned the map; the butcher's shop … the bakery … the potters' and the masonry out houses were neatly labelled along with the names of the family who lived in the houses … he saw the village square with Morn's tavern and the stables and village hay barn all taking up three of the four sides while the river acted as the boundary for the fourth side of the square. Eragon spotted Jorde's Tree and Helv's Stump and several other local landmarks. The fields all carefully marked out in the lay of the land as well as who owned them … and finally a small building outline with the label 'Brom' and a little asterisk beside it. Searching, Eragon found the additional label: _father of Eragon Shadeslayer, Dragon Rider, Founder of the Varden, Elf Friend, Story Teller (and a frequent public nuisance after consuming too much of Morn's fine ale)_.

"Here it is," Horst rumbled, placing his thumb over the square on the map that represented Brom's house. He said nothing about the additional label he'd given the old man. "Right … so if we just …" he faffed about with several other sheets of paper and parchment cluttered on the desk until he produced a rather transparent roll of paper that he placed over the top of his map. The new and improved Carvahall came into view superimposed over the old village; giving Eragon and Horst a clear look of where the old Carvahall lay in comparison to the city.

"What is this paper?" Eragon asked, touching the second sheaf.

Horst smiled, "The elves make it; the same way as normal paper, but somehow they press it so it is thinner and transparent. They sell ten sheaves – that's half this size – for one arget coin. But they made some this size for me specially; I got three sheaves for the same price."

Eragon nodded transfixed; the elves it seemed had taken little trouble in adapting into the society outside their forest. He made a mental note to congratulate Arya upon her efforts in dragging her kin out of their leafy halls and into the bright sunlight. But then he remembered Arya was currently being held captive by Murtagh and that the whole reason he was here with Horst was so he could find his father's house, locate the stupid book, and hopefully find a way to rescue her without giving Murtagh what he wanted … whatever that was.

"Right …" the blacksmith was saying, "judging by this, your father's house should be in the middle of this gap right here," he pointed on the map to a spot that appeared empty compared to the rest of the city.

"How come no one's built anything there?" Eragon asked.

Horst frowned, "I don't … oh well there's a low hill there – too steep to build upon so it was just left as a place for the children to play."

"Father's house must be in the middle somewhere," Eragon mused. "His wards must've buried it under a mound of earth so the Raz'ac couldn't destroy it."

Horst nodded in agreement, though Eragon knew he didn't quite understand what Eragon meant by 'wards'. "How you're going to get inside is another matter," he glanced at Eragon and grinned, "I've got a shovel you could borrow if you'd like?"

"Funny."

"What's the name of this book you're meant to find?"

"_Abr Sundavr un Garjzla_." Eragon muttered. "Though I don't see how a _book_ is going to help me … he probably just can't let go of his stupid riddles and unhelpful hints."

"You can't know that until you read the book," Horst pointed out.

Eragon snorted. "Brom probably just wanted me to tidy up after him."

* * *

><p>AN : _so here it is; chapter thirty-six. My apologies for taking so long but ... well I have been busy with college work :( But I have not gone away people_


	37. The House Within The Mound

**The House within the Mound**

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><p>When Eragon reached the low hill, he found a tangle of weeds and long grass covering a mound in the centre of the city. It was out of place, considering the houses all packed together and the lack of space within the walls, but also a refreshing break from the continuous stone buildings and cobbled streets.<p>

Some children were playing with sticks atop the mound but paid no notice to Eragon, which suited him quite perfectly.

_Now what?_ Saphira asked. _Should we dig it up?_

_Blast through to the house!_ Fírnen suggested.

_How about we check to make sure the house is actually there first?_ Eragon suggested.

_Oh … alright then …_ the dragons muttered.

Eragon reached out his mind to the hill and met a welter of wards and magic circulating through the earth to protect the house within. Eragon pulled back before he triggered anything and sighed, stumped. Trust his father to think of some highly complicated and unbreakable pattern of wards and protection around his house. The idiot. How was Eragon meant to get into the house to find the book?

_How about telling it to open?_ Saphira asked. _After all, you are Brom's son – maybe he took that into account when he worded the wards, put a failsafe in that mean you could access the place if he died, for whatever reason._

_Perhaps …_ Eragon said dubiously. He strode over to the tangle of weeds and grass and other foliage and placed his hand on the wall of earth in front of him. On one side the mound rose almost vertically like a wall, only to slope gently down on the opposite side. Like a lopsided triangle with a square corner sticking out of the ground. Yet circular and very weather beaten. It looked almost like a natural rocky earth formation.

Closing his eyes, Eragon said under his breath in the ancient language; "My name is Eragon Bromsson. I need to enter the house within this mound." The magic seemed to tighten and flex as if preparing to do something.

Nothing happened.

He tried many variations of his name, and even breathed his true name to the earth but still nothing moved, shifted, opened or otherwise altered whatsoever. Giving up on the idea that his identity would undo the old man's protection, Eragon set about trying to dismantle the wards enough to gain access – to no avail. Finally Eragon slumped to the ground with his back against the mound in defeat. Brom's wards were too good.

_You could always try the True Name of the ancient language,_ Saphira pointed out.

_And bring the mound crashing down on the house and everything of value in it?_

_Maybe not then_.

Eragon got to his feet as a wash of fury and irritation engulfed him. He punched the solid earth wall with all his might, but all he succeeded in doing was bruising his knuckles; a wild throbbing spiked through his right hand and he swore loudly, sounding in that moment very much like his father – which was perhaps why Gertrude the healer paused as she strode past.

This was stupid – why was he wasting his time on such a futile errand? How could a book help him in his situation? What would have been more help is if his father or Islanzadí had told him where Murtagh was holding Arya. He could be half way there by now. He punched the wall again. And again. Until his knuckles were bloody and bruised.

_Is that supposed to achieve anything?_

Eragon told Saphira to keep herself to herself. He wasn't in the mood. Saphira withdrew completely knowing that Eragon's temperament couldn't tolerate even a hint of her reactions to what he thought, did and said at that moment.

He let his head fall against the mound as his bruised hand dropped to his side. He watched a trickle of blood drip down his hand and fall upon the ground at his feet. A moment later another drop joined it. When a third droplet of his blood fell to the earth the magic surrounding Brom's house contracted and before his very eyes, a door emerged through the wall of dirt looking for all the world as if it had been there for years.

_Of course,_ Eragon thought to himself, _blood magic. _The most powerful kind of magic there is … and also the most dangerous.

Reaching out a hand, Eragon lifted the latch and pushed open the door. It swung wide with a creak and bounced against the inside wall. The interior was dark; Eragon conjured a handful of flames and stepped over the threshold. The door swung shut behind him and the flames in his hand went out with a flicker and a hiss. For the space of three frantic heartbeats, he was surrounded by total darkness.

And then daylight began peeking through the squat windows. As he watched, Eragon saw the dirt and earth crumble away to reveal the dust covered clutter that filled Brom's cabin. In the beams of light shining in through the dirty windows, dust swirled in peace, suspended in space as if time had frozen the small house. An air of tranquillity surrounded the place.

In the far corner stood the unmade bed Brom had slept in. A pile of ash and burned logs sat in the cold fire place while a cup of old tea perched untouched upon a pile of thick volumes, their titles' lost in the dust. Shelves filled the room – long narrow racks stood in the centre of the building and provided a complex labyrinth-like lay out which was an achievement given the small space. Several mismatched chairs littered the room, most acting as extra storage for several piles of books and scrolls while desktops were littered with scribbles and bits of paper and parchment. Several inkbottles had dried up and others had spilled over the floor. Brom had been in a hurry to leave and intercept Eragon before he made his frantic run for it.

Sighing, Eragon sat down on the only chair not taken over by books; the clawed armchair that Brom had always sat in. Incidentally the same chair from which he'd told Eragon all about dragons, and the names of many famous dragons of bygone times. Eragon stared into the empty fire place and thought for a long time on his father; being in the old man's house bought back to him how little he had known of the man and how much he had found out after he had died. Closing his eyes, Eragon lost himself in remembrance for a few minutes, and then with a heavy sigh he looked round at the clutter that surrounded him and wondered where this stupid book could be and if Brom had really only wanted Eragon to tidy the place up.

He spent the entire day in his father's house. From the outside the place appeared no different, aside from there being windows, a door and a chimney poking through the mound; Eragon said the children were welcome to continue playing on the mound. Using magic and manual labour to remove dust and clean the place up. He decided the quickest way to find what he was looking for was to put the contents of Brom's house into some semblance of order. Firstly he decided he had to put the space available to him to better use; and to redesign the layout of Brom's house to suit its new purpose – namely Eragon's personal library.

Enlisting the help of the twins, Garrow and Cadoc, Eragon had them transport the documents and texts to Roran's hall where his cousin had given him an empty room to store everything. The two boys were thrilled to be helping out their uncle. Clearing out Brom's house took the entire day and he would've continued well into the night if Oromis hadn't come and forced him to take a break.

Over the next three days, Eragon and his helpers cleared out everything from the cabin, transporting the things of importance and use to Roran's keep and throwing anything of no use into a large bonfire in the square. Apparently the anniversary of Galbatorix's defeat was approaching and to celebrate a bonfire was light and a celebration held in the square. The bonfire wouldn't be lit until the actual day the mad king was killed, but the inhabitants of Carvahall added to the pile that would be burned everything they no longer wanted or could use.

After the house had been emptied, a day was spent cleaning it from top to bottom. It would've taken longer if Eragon hadn't used magic to speed the process up. To pass the time he indulged the boys' helping him with stories his father used to tell. Using more magic and the advice from several elves and carpenters in the city, Eragon extended the house upwards an extra two stories, making full use of the height of the mound; the additional two layers of the house were each smaller than the level below it, on account of the shape of the pile of dirt that hid it from view.

A week after discovering how to get into the place, Eragon had fully reconstructed the layout of Brom's house; rows of shelves were placed with enough space for two people to walk through a row at a time. The outer walls were also lined with bookcases and shelves and the fire place had been cleaned out and repaired. The lower two levels of the building – the two largest levels – were given over entirely to housing the volumes, scrolls and texts Brom had accumulated during his life. The top level was furnished with book shelves lining the walls and a large desk with Brom's armchair placed before the fire. There was space to study on each level of the house by the fire, a small desk and a chair or two, but the main studying area was at the top of what once had been the dwelling of Brom the Story Teller.

Oromis helped Eragon replace the texts and documents into the new library; suggesting he place them in alphabetical order, and separating the dwarven texts from the elven, and the scrolls from the books. Two weeks later Eragon had finished and he slumped down on a chest filled with strange artefacts Eragon hadn't had time to figure out yet. At least now he would have a chance at finding the book Brom had told him to get – if it even existed; Eragon was still sure his father had just wanted Eragon to tidy the place up for him.

Even so, to waste two weeks building a library seemed pointless when he should have and could have been finding and rescuing Arya. But as Oromis pointed out, the information now easily assessable to them would no doubt make up for that lost time since neither of them could think of where Murtagh was based from. Eragon had a personal attachment to the library he'd constructed and was somewhat loath to let strangers – or anyone really – into it. Thing was it wasn't really something he could pick up and take with him. _I'll cross that bridge when I come to it,_ he decided. _Right now I need food and rest._

He slept soundly that night, ready the next morning to spend the day looking through shelves in search of the book. Oromis went with him. He wanted to know if there was anything in the new library that would suggest where to start looking for Murtagh. At midday, Katrina bought them lunch and suggested the two Riders got some fresh air.

"You'll forget what daylight is if you're not careful! This place is dark and dingy, but then it is built under a hill." To solve the issue of lighting, Eragon cast a cluster of werelights into existence, tying their energy to the hill itself so that they'd light up whenever someone entered the building. Katrina stalked off in a huff.

"I'd be doing the same as him if you were missing," Roran said to her that evening over dinner. Eragon and Oromis were conspicuous by their absence. "He doesn't know where to look so he's not going to rest until he does. I didn't know where the Raz'ac had taken you so I marched to the Varden. It's no different." Katrina huffed again.

Back in the library, Oromis had just stumbled across an old text that Brom had evidently rescued from the libraries of Doru Areaba. He sat by the fire on the first level absorbed by the text while Eragon frantically searched the level above. Brom's son had just about given up when his eyes caught a something in a pile of books Oromis had rifled through that morning. A small tome bound in purple leather was half hidden under the bigger books. Eragon lifted the larger volumes and placed them upon the floor as he picked up the book.

Flicking through it, Eragon realised it wasn't so much a book as a journal; he was about to put it down when –

_Abr Sundavr un Garjzla;_

_Introduction_

_Of Riders and their Istalrí_

_Of the Deity Arven_

_Of Grey Magic and its Instruments_

_Of the Race of Grey Folk and their Demise_

_Of the Nine Hearts_

He stared at the words written on the first page for a full minute before it registered in his mind; he had convinced himself the book didn't exist and yet here it was. Though whether it would prove useful or not … Eragon still doubted that. Nothing in the contents looked remotely helpful but he figured he ought to at least read the book before making his decision. Never judge a book by its cover and all that. Eragon climbed to the top level and sat down in Brom's chair. Saphira and Fírnen joined their minds with his own as he sat down to read the introduction:

_And so it comes to pass that our Order shall wither and perish; that we must suffer the grief of Galbatorix as he laments the loss of his beloved Jarnunvösk. I only hope that some of us survive to linger on and sustain all that we have stood for these past centuries gone – that our history and our lore does not die with us._

'_Tis why I now write this document; why I dare to put upon perishable paper the histories and the knowledge that we Riders are trusted with. I know how dangerous this will be; I break the Peacebringer's law by doing this for undoubtedly this book could fall into hands of one whom has no right to read it … or even still that Galbatorix himself comes to find my text in his possession. If that comes to pass then may Arven forgive me but I cannot let these truths die with me; some truths are too dangerous to be forgotten. I write in the hope that one day a Rider will pick up this document and read my words and that I can in turn teach them something of our knowledge._

_So, greetings to you then, Rider. And Salutations to your Dragon as well. Read on and learn something if it pleases you … I hope that you find with these pages the truths you were looking for – and mayhap some that you didn't realise you needed too. Who knows, maybe herein lies the key to stopping Galbatorix from destroying the world? If that be the case then it falls upon you, Rider, to stop him and destroy him before he in turn destroys you. The survival of who we are, Rider, no doubt rests upon you. Good Luck my friend, and farewell for I will be long dead by the time you read this._

_Hlfver of Petrovya_

Eragon looked up from the book and out the window. _This is stupid_, he said, _I've already confronted Galbatorix._

_There must be a reason Brom told you to find this book_, Saphira pointed out. _It's not a long book so you might as well read it all. For all we know it could be a sentence mentioned in passing that we need – like in Domia abr Wyrda._

Eragon grunted and turned to the first chapter.

_Iet istalrí … my fire … you are my strength and my reason … and yet you are also my weakness and my undoing. If you were to place a dagger to my throat, I would be powerless to act – and yet know that I would take apart the world to find you if you were taken from me. You give me purpose when I have none … and you could ensure my downfall if you so desired it._

_There are times when I hate you. You know me better even than my Dragon at times. There are times when I hate you and times when I love you. The funny thing is; no matter what you say or do, I cannot for the life of me, stay angry with you. We are like fire and rain, you and I … like two completely different stars. You drive me insane and yet – oh how it is I find myself wanting and craving your company iet istalrí. You're the harmony to every song I sing, did you know that? When we stand face-to-face we never see eye-to-eye … and – and I wouldn't, ever, change a thing._

_But it pains my heart to know you may betray me. I'd forgive you. Always and completely forgive you no matter what it is you do. The choice to save the world or save you? You … always you. My best friend … my most trusted of comrades … the one I turn to when the world is at fault. Iet istalrí you are all I need to keep me going and keep me fighting. I will be to you whatever you want me to be; a friend, a protector, a brother, a servant, a lover … you hold my heart in perfect balance you do. You and my Dragon. Guard it well and know that I need you. I need you._

Perhaps it was the compatibility of the words that made Eragon read on; despite his reservations he couldn't deny that Hlfver of Petrovya's words were truth. Although he doubted he could ever put into words what he felt so poetically. He suspected Hlfver was an elf. The next three chapters were a more concise version of the tale Oromis had told himself and Arya back in Ilirea – about a god named Arven and how Magic became magic – although they touched upon the addition of 'Grey Magic' which Oromis had left out his tale. The final chapter, however, was a different story and Eragon read with wide eyes and growing wonder:

_Du Hjarta abr Táldris were nine men blessed – or cursed – with the ability to control an aspect of nature without the limits of the ancient language. Some say it was Arven who blessed them, while others say that Zarven cursed them but either way they awoke one morn with abilities far beyond what was the norm. Shunned and pushed aside for their strangeness and their uncanny capabilities, the nine men eventually found one another and learned they were not alone. And they began to realise how much they could and couldn't do with the strange magic they wielded and started experimenting and learning the limits of the gifts given to them. A man came and guided them to the Dragon Riders where their uniqueness was nurtured into a power and wisdom akin to the Riders of Old; the nine weren't immortal as the elves and Riders, unless they were elves or Riders, but they lived lives longer than most of their respective races._

_They gave each other pseudonyms to go by and thus became known throughout the land as the Nine Hearts of Táldris. (Táldris being the place in which they found one another) And their names were:_

_- Adurnahjarta; Water-Heart_

_- Bjarthjarta; Bright-Heart_

_- Deloihjarta; Earth-Heart_

_- Istalríhjarta; Fire-Heart_

_- Kuldrhjarta; Gold-Heart_

_- Sundavrhjarta; Shadow-Heart_

_- Vanyalihjarta; Magic-Heart_

_- Vindrhjarta; Air-Heart_

_- Zar'rochjarta; Misery-Heart._

_Each of the nine in time found wives and families and each name in turn was passed downwards to a young member of their family that displayed hints and titbits of the same talents. Thus were the Hearts of Táldris immortal and age resistant as the Dragon Riders who taught them and nurtured them._

_The magic that the nine wielded wasn't the magic known to elves and the Riders for it didn't require the structure of the ancient language only the discipline of thought. They were able to do anything they wanted if they could put their minds to it; from what I gather the nine could control the aspects of nature and meld them into whatever they wanted. 'Tis a wild and unpredictable method of magic – but cannot be counted or undone by the conventional uses of magic for the limits of the ancient language can be overcome by the boundless reaches of the mind._

_The nine weren't necessarily only human, or elven, or dwarven, but rather a mixture of all the races and - sometimes – throughout the years a decedent would emerge to have been chosen by a dragon egg, although that was very rare although it was not unheard of. Five of the nine families died out and the other four were lost – either dying out, the abilities of Táldris no longer cropping forth in the younger relatives, or the four being killed before they could produce and see a fitting heir born. I believe Galbatorix made an effort to try and track down any surviving descendants of the original nine, although whether or not he found any is another matter for I have no evidence that suggests he has._

_So be on the lookout, my friend, and beware for if Galbatorix has found a way to harness such magic then you will be at a loss to counteract any of that magic. Pray to Arven, dear Rider, and hope that he has not found any Heir of Táldris and twisted them into a cruel slavery of servitude. I am sorry, but this is all I know about the Nine Hearts of Táldris … and I really wish I knew more, for your sake, alas I do not and I hope to Arven that Galbatorix found no heir, I really do._

At the bottom of the page were words written in a different hand – Brom had made his contribution to the journal also.

_The stone of Táldris where resides the spirit of the first Heart; Deloihjarta was a relic in the treasury in Doru Areaba. I was tasked with finding a new location to hide it when the city was under siege. Vrael himself came to me and charged me with protecting and concealing the stone. Yet as Saphira and I flew from the city we were pursued by Morzan and his Red: Vrael and Umaroth fished me out of the sea but my Saphira perished and her body sank to the depth taking with it the Stone._

_The blood of Kuldrhjarta runs through my veins though I have not the gift to use them. But my son bears the gift, I am sure at least of that. Though he does not know who I am and nor will he lest Galbatorix kills him before he sees out his first winter. Do not ask how it is I know, but I know it. He is the last of the Nine Hearts of Táldris. I praise his mother for the name she gave to him for he will bear it as his namesake bore it. My son. Eragon._

Oromis burst into the study with a book in his arms. "I know where Murtagh is!" he announced, not seeing the far-away look on Eragon's face. "He's in his father's castle!"

_Typical._ Saphira said to Fírnen.

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><p>AN : _not too sure about this chapter. but I couldnt think of another way to get the information out._


	38. Destiny and Discovery

**Destiny and Discovery**

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><p>Even when she looked back on it, Arya never really knew how long she spent in Utopia Valley content to let the world rise or fall without her. Moot had tended to the gash in her hand using a mixture of herbs and magic; all that remained was a faint silvery scar upon the back of her left hand and through the centre of her gedwëy ignasia. She hadn't thought to ask if the injury would affect her bond with Fírnen. Indeed Fírnen and Eragon and all the others had become nothing but a distant memory, as had, in actual fact, anything about herself other than her name and the face of her mother.<p>

She spent her days wondering the forest in the valley floor; watching the land in its youthful glory and never leaving trace that she had been there. Sometimes she would wonder across Moot and dependent upon the old man's mood they would sit and talk or sit and watch or simply cross paths and carry on their way without acknowledging one another. Though she did not know it, the longer Arya stayed in the valley the less likely it was she would ever leave the place.

Then one night as she lay under the stars, Arya's fantasies took on a clarity that was unreal.

She stood upon the prow of a large elven warship. Beside her stood a woman with hair like liquid silver and eyes pale as the grey moon. She wore a dress of fine steel and silk and held about herself a poise of importance and dignity that only those of high birth had. The deck of the ship was empty, although familiar to Arya, yet she didn't know why. Its name was woven into the railing at the aft by the vines it had been grown from; _Talítha._

Around them was the deep blue of night; stars twinkled and winked at the two women and they sailed silently on through waters so still that the night extended to remove the horizon. A sense of peace flowed through Arya that she hadn't felt in a long time – a presence of comfort that used to surround her but had long since abandoned her.

The woman beside her stirred and spoke.

"You have come far, Islanzadísdaughter." She said. "But your task is not yet finished."

Arya frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Search within, Arya of Ellesméra and do not let the trickery of the valley delude you."

"I don't understand."

The elf beside her smiled and placed a gentle hand upon her shoulder. It was cold. "When you wake child, you will have a choice. To remain forevermore in that valley of bliss or to once more step forth upon a road of hardship and toil."

Arya raised an eyebrow. "When you say it like that then why would I ever leave?"

The woman shook her head and smiled some more. "There is much you do not know, Dröttning. Those that would have told you truth perished before they could, leaving the task to those that would deceive you."

Arya's confusion must have shown upon her face.

"You are of my line, child." The woman said. "And the son born of the first female of my line shall unite the land in all its glory and secure the peace that had been lost."

The words struck recognition in Arya's mind and something her father (she hadn't recalled she had a father until that instant) said came back to her. "Elvedom thrives while Argetzí rules."

The woman smiled. "I never ruled per say," she said, "but I birthed the first elven king. Before my son Drénn united them, the elves were segregated and unorganised. He led them from the darkness of the Dragon War into the light of peace and prosperity. He led them out of mortality and into immortality." The woman – Argetzí – stared at Arya with hard grey eyes. "As you have done also, my dear. You have led our people from seclusion back into society in the wake of Galbatorix's death."

Arya stared out across the still water. It was hard to tell if they were moving or not. What Argetzí was saying made little sense.

"When you wake," she continued, "you will understand. It took great courage to give up your throne, but then you never did let them crown you in the first place. The Knotted Throne can only be held successfully by one of my blood. Those without it often have short and difficult reigns."

Arya saw a paling of dawn before her and knew the sun was rising.

"One, last, thing, Dröttning," Argetzí said.

"I'm no queen," Arya said softly. "I gave it up. Just as you said."

Argetzí smiled tolerantly. "You were not ready. And you were not crowned. You can take that seat back, child, though you do not have to sit in it, only claim it. But if peace between the races is to be ensured, then only _your_ son can achieve it."

Arya glanced at the other woman. "I don't have a son."

"Not yet," Argetzí agreed. "And nor will you if you do not leave Utopia and aid the man you love in vanquishing the threat he faces."

Arya watched the sun rise, its light warming her face and slowly as it climbed did it wash away the idle peacefulness and contentment that the valley had installed upon her. Who she was and what she was came flooding back to her and as it did so did her need to leave – to find Eragon and Fírnen and Saphira and tell them she was alright. That she was alive.

Arya turned to face Argetzí, but her foremother was gone.

She blinked and the tranquillity of the still sea was replaced with the forest of bliss in the valley of paradise.

_The son born of the first female of my line will unite the land in all its glory and secure the peace that has been lost._ Arya hated prophecies.

However, now she was awake, her steady resolve to leave and help Eragon faded somewhat, especially in the light of the very real fact that she loved him so much – so much in fact that Argetzí seemed to think he was going to father a son with her, a son who would become one of the greatest elven kings ever to live. No. It was much simpler to lay back on the grass here and watch the birds dancing in the sky …

Her agitation remained all morning until she gave in to her resolve and to who she was (or was supposed to be, according to a long-dead memory or whatever it was of the woman whom Arya's House was named after). Getting to her feet, Arya set off towards the cave in the hopes of finding Moot and enlisting his help although the old hermit wasn't likely to be of much use in all this.

When Arya reached the mountain top and the ledge with the cave, it was to find Moot sitting before a campfire with an assortment of things around him and staring with a melancholy expression upon his weathered face. He spoke before she could.

"You have decided to leave, little princess?" he sounded sad, as if her leaving would cause him much pain and anguish.

"I must," she whispered.

Moot sighed. "It was inevitable, I suppose. Though I wished to spare you from the hardships ahead … the chances of success are slim … and if your Boy-Wanderer cannot learn to use his gifts …"

Arya sat down across the campfire from Moot and stared into the flames.

"Did Argetzí tell you of the prophecy?"

Arya's eyes shot up to the hermit. "How do you know of an elven prophecy?" she snapped.

He's eyes glinted. He reached up and parted his hair so Arya could clearly see the pointed tips they ended in. Moot was an elf. In all fairness, Arya shouldn't have been surprised.

"Fine … I still have to leave."

Moot watched her intently. "And if you succeed little princess? What then? If you beat Murtagh and his father what, then, will you do?"

Arya didn't say anything but she gathered that Moot wasn't going to help her until she made that decision. She sighed. "Däthedr is king. What right do I have to take the throne from him?"

"The right of your blood. Remember you do not have to sit in that Throne. Only claim it as yours. If you so wish it, you can choose another to act in your stead until your son is ready to take his place upon it."

Arya turned away. "This is pointless and not important. Eragon needs my help!" she hadn't realised she shouted until the birds flapped away cawing indignantly.

Moot sighed heavily. "He believes you are being held captive by Murtagh. Even now he journeys towards Morzan's castle upon the shores of Fläm. You can get there first and await his arrival and calm his agitated thoughts upon your welfare. But there is something I must ask of you to do for me, little princess."

"What?" Arya asked suspiciously.

"That rock your Boy-Wanderer found in Murtagh's procession. It is the Stone of Táldris and within it holds the consciousness of the first Heart: Deloihjarta. Though the breach opened when the Du Wydra Nángorörh spells were cast is closed, the gap between this world and the next has been weakened. For the world to be truly healed – for the power Murtagh gained from it to be truly vanquished – one must take the Stone to the place where the spells were cast and step through to the Void. The instant the Stone leaves this world will it release a force of energy so powerful that this world and the next will be forever separated. In doing so will the Stone – and the power of the Nine Hearts of Táldris – be destroyed and the dead forever dead."

"So what do you want me to do?" Arya asked quietly. "I do not think Argetzí will appreciate you sending me to my death before I produce this heir she has been awaiting."

Moot smiled – a rare sight upon his weathered face. "All you must do is take the Stone from Murtagh. That is all. The one whom is meant to take it beyond will know when they come into its presence." Arya thought that a very feeble explanation but left it be.

"Very well." She said. "I shall do all I can to get the Stone away from Murtagh and into the hands of the one meant to use it. But first I think I need to get to Morzan's stronghold."

"Yes … and you should also not go unarmed." Moot handed Arya a bundle. "Go and change, little princess. A man can wear the same clothes for eternity but it is unbefitting a woman to do so."

Arya accepted the clothing and got to her feet. She ducked into the cave and made her way to the back of the cave where a natural hot spring fed into a shallow pool perfect for bathing. She stripped and washed before donning her new garments. A pair of deep green leggings that finished mid-way down her calves and hugged tight to her legs for ease of movement. An unbleached linen vest went underneath a tough sleeveless jerkin of an off-white that was open at the throat. Round her neck and covering her shoulders was a hood of soft brown. A pair of fingerless gloves made out of the same toughened off-white leather covered her hands and her feet were bear.

It was odd, but Arya had never felt more like an elf.

She used the bit of twine meant to keep the neck of the jerkin closed to tie back her hair; all she managed was to twist it into a knot at the back of her head and use the twine to keep the bundle in place. Arya picked up her mother's golden dagger and left the cave. Moot was still sitting by the campfire and he looked round when Arya approached.

He gazed at her. "I see the clothing fits … good." He got to his feet and handed Arya a bow and quiver full of arrows fletched with different bird feathers. No two feathers were the same. Arya took the items and tested the reach of the bow. She was comfortably straining to pull the bow to its full and nodded satisfied. Her own bow had been lost years ago – sometime during the war, now she came to think about it – and she liked the simplistic beauty that this new bow had to match her old one. Arya already had one item of ornate opulence, she didn't much want another.

"Thank you," Arya said. And she meant it.

Moot nodded and watched Arya settle the quiver on her back. She used the extra straps as a belt and stuck her dagger under it. The only danger was the bare blade catching her flesh and doing injury but Arya put that out of her mind. She had to get to Morzan's castle and take the Stone away from Murtagh before Eragon got there and dismantled the place (and no doubt got himself caught, injured or killed in the process).

"All that remains," Moot said, "Is for you to find your way through the forest …" he nodded to himself and strode to the ledge. He threw back his head and howled like a wolf into the still air. Arya shivered.

A moment later, out of the trees, prowled a pack of wolves.

Arya tensed and gripped her new bow tightly.

Moot watched her with amusement. "For the respect your Boy-Wanderer bears these mountains will Toughpaw and his pack guide you and protect you through the Spine to Morzan's castle." He gestured to the largest of the wolves. Arya glanced at it and resisted the urge to flee.

Toughpaw the wolf padded silently towards her, watching with yellow eyes. Arya tried hard not to blink. He sniffed her, as if accustoming himself to her scent, and then dipped his head in a nod. Each member of the pack in turn came up and caught a whiff of Arya's scent and then paced back to the edge of the trees, waiting.

Moot touched Arya upon the shoulder. "Good luck, little princess," he said. "And know you are always welcome here, if you should desire it."

Arya glanced over her shoulder at the landscape in the light of the afternoon sun. This place truly was paradise … but she knew in her heart that she had only been content here, as Eragon had only been content on that island. It seemed neither of them were suited to sitting around wasting days away; they had to be doing something.

Toughpaw nudged her with his snout as if to say, _let's go_, and Arya found herself nodding in agreement.

"Okay then, lead the way."

The wolf turned tail and trotted into the trees with Arya and the pack following behind. She paused once more and saw the valley in all its glory with Moot the mountain hermit silhouetted against the bright sun. Something told Arya she wasn't likely to find the valley again, even if she wanted to, regardless of Moot's murmured eternal welcome. But Utopia Valley would always have a place in her memories – as the island would always have a place in Eragon's.

The forest of the Spine was alien to her. A tangle of branches and twisting trails that made little sense to Arya. The Spine was not friendly to trespassers and did not distinguish between friend or foe … but Du Weldenvarden welcomed anyone who meant no ill-will to the forest. Du Weldenvarden was lush and the trees tall and thick, the ground littered with rich undergrowth. The trees of the Spine were narrow and huddled close together making it difficult to follow a straight path through the trees. The ground was littered with shrubs and twigs and the entire place let off a sense of gloom and silence – a silence so absolute Arya was almost afraid to break it.

Beside her the wolves ran through the forest, their fur thick with rain and their paws making no sound upon the earth. If Arya had not been an elf the wolves would've left her in the dust; as it was she was pushed to her limits, glad of all the running Oromis had made her and Eragon do during those months in Ilirea. The wolves appeared not to tire and she was almost certain they were going to keep up their pace all the way to Morzan's castle without stopping to rest or eat.

But she was proved otherwise. As the moon climbed to its height that first day, Toughpaw halted and sent a couple of the pack members to locate a warm safe environment for them to rest. Five minutes later Arya was sitting in the middle of a ring of wolves as they curled to sleep under the roots of an over turned tree. Hungry and exhausted, she laid back on the ground and looked up at the starry sky above; exhaustion won out over her hunger.

A week after setting out with the wolves as her guides and protectors, Arya reached the southern shore of Fläm lake. Crouching down, Arya crept to the edge of the tree line and peered out across the lake; sunlight stained the waters orange and nestled in the mountains to the west, was a large stronghold that had been built from quarried stone. Even though she was hidden on the edge of the forest and the castle at least a league away across the water Arya felt that the castle knew exactly where she was.

Toughpaw nudged her arm and snorted. Arya placed a hand on his neck and felt the wolf's hackles raised; "I'll be fine," she told him gently in the ancient language, but Toughpaw snorted again and nudged her again. "Even if I wait for Eragon to get here before going in, I need to get closer. Eragon will come from the north, and he'll have no reason to be on this side of the lake."

Toughpaw sniffed as if to say, _fine. You're safer here but fine._

Arya smiled at the wolf. "Thank you for getting me here in one piece, Toughpaw."

He placed his head over her shoulder, allowing Arya to hug him round the neck and nudged her arm again. A couple of the other wolves padded over to say their farewells and one by one they disappeared back into the gloom of the Spine, leaving Arya alone by the shores of the lake with Morzan's castle looming imposingly at her in the distance.

Without the wolves' company, Arya threaded her way round to the west side of the lake in the shadows of the forest's edge. Hopefully the tangle of trees and shrubbery would hide her from the eyes of those watching from the stronghold. Her progress was also somewhat slower without the pack; Arya had to now be weary of potential threats from the forest that the wolves had protected her from during their journey.

It took Arya most of the rest of the day to reach the castle. It's only entrance (not including flying in on dragon back) opened up facing the lake and the gate was large enough for three dragons of Glaedr's size to walk through side-by-side. She made a rudimentary camp in a secluded shelter of upturned tree roots – the Spine seemed to have an abundance of uprooted trees – and crawled towards the edge of the tree line to observe the goings-on at the gate entrance.

A surprising number of people were milling around the gate, unloading barges that had docked at the lake's shore and transporting whatever the goods were inside the walls. Over the grunts and shouts of the men working, Arya got the gist of what Murtagh was planning next, although the men working couldn't be expected to know the details since they looked to Arya no more than common foot soldiers. Even so, what she heard alarmed her. Murtagh was planning to take back and re-establish the Empire and apparently he'd sold the cause by insisting Nasuada had stolen it from the people in the first place. Which, technically, was true – but the Empire wouldn't have needed stealing if Galbatorix hadn't have gone mad and destroyed the Riders, established himself as overlord of Alagaësia, and hunted down anyone who tried to oppose him.

That night, Arya wondered through her surroundings in the hopes of locating Eragon. She had no luck and was about to head back to the shelter of her tree roots when she spotted a flickering light through the gloom. A campfire. Curiosity getting the better of her, Arya drew her bow, nocked an arrow, and paced forwards on silent feet. She halted in the shadows and peeked into the circle of light in order to determine if it was friend or foe.

The campsite, however, was abandoned – a struggle had taken place for the pot of stew was strewn across the ground and belongings scattered as if they'd been searched through. What looked shockingly like blood dampened the floor by the fireside … and bodies lay mangled and mutilated where they had fallen; empty faces staring accusingly up at the stars who just stared coldly down at them. Arya's heart hammered in her chest; whatever had happened here she didn't want to be a part of it.

Backing away, she stumbled and tripped over the roots of a tree. Twigs and branches snapped loudly in the silence and somewhere, someone said; "What was that?"

"We must've missed one … did we miss one?"

There was a thump and a muffled yell. Someone had just been struck across the face.

"Spread out … find them …" the first voice said harshly. "And you – take him up to the castle. Murtagh and Morzan will be glad the company."

Arya lay very still in the shrubbery as the sounds of soldiers crashing through the forest echoed around her. Her heart beat loudly in her chest and she was sure it was going to give her whereabouts away …

"Hey!" the second voice shouted, sounding alarmingly close by, "I think I've found something!"

Arya tensed.

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><p>AN : _sooo yeah. Give me a heads up if I just make this too complicated ... but in all fairness this prophecy isn't part of this story (I just needed some foreshadowing in case I write a sequel)_


	39. Betrayal

**Betrayal**

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><p>Arya held her breath and closed her eyes as footsteps paced nearer to where she lay in the shrubbery. Voices yelled out asking what it was the soldier had seen. Arya gripped tight her bow and placed the arrow to the string. Her heart pounding, she rolled onto her front and got her feet underneath herself as she sank deeper into the shadows, although if she had already been spotted then all the soldier had to was shout and she'd be surrounded.<p>

"Over here!" the soldier yelled and Arya spotted him waving his arm silhouetted against torches, beckoning his comrades towards where Arya was hiding. He'd seen her.

Drawing the string tight, Arya took a deep breath as the soldier paced round the tree she was hiding behind. Counting to three Arya stepped out of her hiding place and before the soldier could shout and disarm her or do anything, she released the arrow and it embedded itself in his throat. He crumpled to the ground choking on his blood; retrieving her arrow, Arya ran on silent feet back towards her shelter under the root of a fallen tree. Behind her, growing dimmer the further she ran, the soldiers called to one another as they discovered their now dead comrade and dragged their captive – whoever the unlucky bugger was – into Morzan's castle.

Her plan of sneaking inside, grabbing the rock and sneaking out again before Eragon showed up wasn't going to work; if she was ever to get inside then she knew, just by looking at the place, that she needed Eragon. There was a chance she'd get in undetected, but getting out again? Carrying a priceless object desired by her enemies? Nope. Not without help.

It rained that night.

Heavy, cold rain that told her quite plainly, that summer was fast fading. She shivered and huddled under her sparse shelter, the rain reflected off her due to a spell she'd murmured through chattered teeth and shivering limbs. Unable to rest and slip into the dream world out of fear she would be discovered, Arya dozed as the night wore on, brutally shaking herself awake whenever she felt her consciousness drift to the fantasies of illusion. In the blackest hours she wondered idly what Eragon was doing … probably safely camped in some warm and secure shelter in the forest sound asleep not at all afraid of what might or might not attack him during the night. Arya wished Toughpaw and his wolf pack were still with her; at least she'd be able to huddle up to their warm hides and rest.

Morning happened when Arya's mind was elsewhere. One moment she was looking out at the dull grey black that preceded dawn, the kind of light that felt as if night and day were battling it out for dominance and the next she knew daylight had won. Blinking, Arya got to her feet and winced as she forced her crampt muscles to stretch. The rain heightened the green in the dull forest and gave everything a sense of freshness that reminded Arya of the forest she'd grown up in. Sucking in a lungful of the fresh forest air, Arya relocated herself near to the path that led to the entrance of Morzan's castle. Remembering the blood soaked ground from the night before, Arya decided against revisiting the campsite. She doubted the soldiers had cleaned up.

Her observation of the stronghold's entrance yielded nothing more than grumblings from the soldiers at having to unload the barges in the rain. She kept an eye out for Eragon, searching the surroundings with her mind when she felt it was worth the risk; if there were any magicians among the soldiers working then they didn't notice Arya's searching. It was difficult to see and think straight in the constant deluge of rain pouring out of the sky and so Arya retreated further back into the forest to her shelter where she built a small fire that wouldn't be seen from the path and tried her best to dry off.

The next few days passed in near enough the same way so that on the fourth day the ground was a muddy puddle and Arya's feet were numb cold. She glanced up at the high walls of Morzan's castle and shuddered. Where was Eragon? Surely there should've have been some sign of him in the surroundings by now? Chattering and grumblings from the animals and the earth that a Rider had walked that way? She'd tried to contact Carvahall the night before last, but there had been no one around to answer her. Arya glanced up at the castle again.

Unless …

She shook her head. Wherever he was, Arya had to trust that he was close because she'd decided that the longer she delayed her foray into Morzan's castle the less likely it was she'd go through with it and steal the damned rock. If what Moot said was true (and honestly, she had no reason to doubt the mad old hermit) then their only chance of winning this conflict against Murtagh was for someone to take the rock into the void. She just hoped she didn't come over with a great epiphany when she grabbed the thing that meant it had to be _her_ to take it. Eragon, Fírnen and Argetzí would have something to say about it if that was the case … besides, as selfish as it was, Arya was rather fond of living.

That evening she packed up her rudimentary camp, making sure to leave no trace that she'd been there – but also making sure that if Eragon happened across the spot then he would know that she was alive and that she would need his help getting out of the castle. The only problem was if some magician noticed her spells and broke them before Eragon did … but she couldn't afford to worry about that as she slipped through the trees to the edge of the forest beside the path leading into Morzan's castle.

It was sickeningly easy: a muttered spell to bend the light around her, rendering herself invisible – such a spell was best cast in low light where such things as shadows and footprints were less likely to be spotted – a short sprint from the cover of the trees to the gate (a distance of about half a mile), three short words to confuse the guards long enough for her to slip between the closing gates and she was in. Her theory was that whatever wards were placed around the perimeter of the castle, they wouldn't be able to detect her presence as she tagged along at the end of the group of soldiers returning for the night. Hopefully no one would know she was there until after she had the rock and Eragon had gotten her out … that was assuming he showed up and happened across her little camp site and dismantled her wards enough to get her message …

She was, Arya reflected dully, relying a lot on chance. But still, so far so good – she had yet to be caught and that more than anything, was an achievement.

The courtyard was vast – it had to be, to accommodate Thorn's huge bulk – and Arya shuddered to imagine how big Morzan's dragon had been before Brom had killed it. A row of stables were half hidden behind the sleeping dragon and a well situated in the very centre in case the castle came under siege. Much of the castle had been given over to housing Murtagh's vast army. A figure was bent over beside Thorn and when he straightened, Arya froze and ducked into the nearest shadow she could find. Murtagh looked around at the soldiers marching towards their sleeping quarters and they all stood straight as he watched them pass.

Heart hammering, Arya felt the tinge of panic threaten to engulf her. It seemed like the anxiety that always used to be triggered by mention of Durza had extended to include situations that appeared suicidal and other stressful encounters. How helpful. _Because this is just what I need right now_, she thought to herself, _get a grip! He's looking straight at you … hold it together …_

Whether or not Arya would've been able to maintain her secrecy in the shadows as Murtagh stared at her was open to debate but thankfully at that moment – thankfully? – Morzan stepped into view and gained his son's attention. Murtagh looked away from the shadows and followed his father inside the keep and Arya let out a shaky breath of relief, her heart pounding away against her ribcage and blind panic receding to heightened fright.

Regaining some composure, Arya snuck across the courtyard to the main door to the keep and waited until someone walked through it so she could slip inside. She figured that a door opening seemingly by itself would cause alarm and it'd be only a matter of moments before she was discovered.

The inside of the castle was dark. The entire thing had been constructed out of black rock quarried from the other side of the lake and lent the interior to have a dank and foreboding feel to it. The walls flickered in the light of the torches that were slung in infrequent brackets and the air was tinged with smoke. Arya ended her spell of invisibility and glanced down the corridor, to the right it carried on for about thirty feet then took a sharp left. The other direction led down to a set of stairs about ten feet from the door. Taking a wild guess that wherever the rock was, Murtagh and Morzan would be close, Arya turned right.

At least it wasn't raining inside. Arya clung to that small upside as she meandered her way slowly through the vast complex of Morzan's castle. True, she was still soaked to the bone, but at least there was a chance of drying off and warming up in here … but it wasn't as if she could get any wetter. Downside was the very real possibility that she was leaving a trail of wet muddy footprints behind her … but she dared not use magic to erase them and there wasn't anything she could use to dry her feet either so all she could do was forge ahead.

Brom had spent near three years of his life here, spying on his hated enemy. Arya wondered how he'd managed it; the decor was enough to put Arya off any prolonged visit – all dark, straight upright edges with cruel points and sharp corners – as if the castle had been purposely designed to resemble nothing of the natural world. Then she remembered that the old fool had fallen in love with Morzan's wife and Brom's reasons for staying were readily explained.

Stories and rumours of Morzan's Black Hand were almost as legendary as tales of the Rider's fall and Galbatorix's rise. At first Arya had thought nothing of them … until she'd come face to face with the woman in a rundown village on the edge of the Hadarac desert one day. Arya had never told Eragon that she'd met his mother; she doubted he would react well to what had happened and what the Black Hand had done – under Morzan's orders of course … but still. She had barely come of that encounter with her life.

But the Black Hand hadn't been Selena then – she was still in love with Morzan and Brom hadn't nosed his way into her heart and changed her for the better – and Arya had fought the woman among the ruins of a desert village for the possession of a scroll that supposedly held the secret to defeating Galbatorix. In all fairness Arya should've known it was a trap … but even so at that point the Varden couldn't afford not to take the risk and get that scroll. She'd fought the Black Hand for something that didn't exist and it had almost cost them both their lives and would have severely altered the outcome of events if one or both had died.

Either way, Arya put that out of her mind as she climbed a set of narrow stairs to the upper floors. So far she'd encountered a grand number of zero people, which was … odd. Surely this place ought to be teaming with the men in Murtagh's army? Unless the soldiers here were only a small fraction of the main force, which was based at some other location. Arya doubted it somehow – they were here; perhaps there was a curfew that they weren't to break under any circumstances; confined to their quarters until dawn so Morzan and Murtagh could do their dark deeds without fear of getting interrupted by curious footmen and officers.

Arya reached the third floor and noticed the subtle change in the decorations. There were more torches for one thing and the walls were covered in long red drapes and rich tapestries of dragons and Riders and various heroes of legend and song. _This must be where Murtagh and Morzan live_, she mused as she began her thorough search of the castle's third floor. She had to duck behind statues and columns as guards patrolled the corridors – much as she did back in Ilirea when avoiding the petty lords and ladies of Nasuada's court.

She was about to head up to the next level when her attention was caught by a lopsided tapestry hanging between two smoking torches. Frowning and making sure no soldiers were heading her way, Arya flitted over to it on light feet and peered at the wall behind it. Lo and behold there was a door. _Real secret Morzan_, she thought to herself. _Because no one's going to think of that are they? What do the stories always say about the location of secret doors?_

Shaking her head, Arya sent out the faintest tendril of thought towards the door, ready to withdraw at a moment's notice if she encountered any wards of magical boundaries around it. When her search came back with nothing she frowned some more. _I should have encountered at least one trap by now … unless Murtagh is so confident of wards on the main wall that he didn't bother placing intruder wards throughout his keep_. All her good sense told her that she was missing something important and to get out now while no one knew she was there.

But she had got this far; if the Stone was behind that door then would it really cost her to take it? Heavy footfalls made her mind up for her; quick as she could, Arya wrenched open the door and ducked inside before whoever it was could spot her and alert the entire castle to her sneaking about inside. She stood with her ear against the door, listening intently until the footsteps faded away and then took a step back and sighed with relief. Then she took a look at her surroundings.

Eragon had described the Stone as resembling most a dragon's eldunarí – a diamond in its purest form glowing white from a pearly white smoke swirling in its middle. The only light source in the room was the Stone of Táldris, resting on a faded black velvet cushion on a stone pedestal. Arya found herself drawn towards it and without realising it, she reached out a hand and placed it upon the surface of the rock. Misshapen and roughly the size of Fírnen's egg but it did not have the frictionless texture a dragon's egg had – rough and pitted Arya found herself lifting it off its perch before consciously making the decision to do so.

Turning on her heel, transfixed by the swirling smoke in its centre, Arya didn't realise she had company until a voice spoke from the shadows.

"What are you doing?"

Arya nearly dropped the Stone. Whirling around, she spotted the boy, Brayan, stepping into the glowing light from the rock in her arms.

"Brayan! What are you doing here?" she asked. Compared to the last time she'd seen the boy – during Yerzogr's attack on the village in the south of Nasuada's kingdom (if it had a name she'd forgotten it) – the boy seemed sadder and not the chirpy joyful child Arya remembered. His clothes now lent themselves to a highborn son rather than the child of a poor barmaid – or whatever his mother had been, she hadn't asked.

"I live here." Brayan answered, "But you haven't answered my question yet."

Arya looked down at the Stone in her arms and thought fast. "Honestly," she began, the look on the boy's face was stern and unforgiving, "it looks worse than it is … I – I'm … um …"

"Stealing from my father."

"Well …" she tried to think of another way to look at it. "Remember that Dragon Rider who attacked your village?" she asked. "Well he was working for Murtagh and –"

"Liar!"

Arya winced. Brayan's voice carried to the lofty reaches of the room and echoed around her ears. "Brayan … listen to me … Murtagh – your father – he's not in his right mind. Galbatorix … he broke him beyond repair and –"

Brayan shook his head. "No … he – he just gets bad headaches … that's all … he – he's not mad!" the boy sounded close to hysterical. "He doesn't mean it – he … he didn't have a choice! And … and he … he's not bad!"

Arya's mind was whirling at top speed. _He didn't have a choice!_ What did that mean? "Brayan … listen to me … I need you to tell me everything you can about …"

"NO!" Brayan glared at Arya with hard eyes. "You're going to kill him aren't you? Just like Eragon Shadeslayer's father killed my grandfather – you'll let Eragon kill my father!"

"I … Brayan …"

"I won't let you!"

"You can't exactly stop me can you?" Arya pointed out before it occurred to her that wasn't the best thing to say to an over emotional six year old. "Ah crap."

Brayan dashed to the door and yanked it open with all his might. Before Arya could stop him, he's screamed at the top of his voice – a remarkably high pitched scream that forced Arya to clap her hands over her ears. As Brayan seized the Stone from her. The boy dashed down the corridor screaming, holding the Stone while Arya tried to regain her bearings.

She'd been betrayed by a six year old.

Giving up on taking the rock, Arya ran as fast as she could towards the exit. And she almost made it too. She skidded round the corner leading to the door she'd entered through to find twenty soldiers in chainmail and red tunics waiting for her. She scrambled to a stop and turned to flee in the opposite direction, but found another thirty men had come from behind her. Arya gripped tight to her bow and nocked three arrows at once, but knew the instant she fired they would attack.

Then through from the back of the ranks Murtagh pushed his way to the front and stood staring at her, cornered like a rat. Morzan and Brayan appeared behind him a little ways – Brayan was sitting comfortably on his grandfather's shoulders and the domestic motion struck Arya as absurbed.

Murtagh shook his head mockingly. "That wasn't very clever was it?"

"Go to hell."

He grinned, his white eye staring blankly at her. "Later, perhaps … but I have work to do here first. Now … be a good little princess and hand Garath your weapons." He motioned to one of the soldiers from Arya's right.

Arya knew that Murtagh would be inclined to have her hurt sooner if she refused to comply so she gave over the bow and quiver Moot had given her, as well as her mother's dagger. Murtagh's greedy eyes were already calculating the weapon so she felt the need to add, "My mother cursed it so only her blood can wield it with good fortune." She doubted the lie would put Murtagh off.

"Who saved you?"

"What?"

"Back in the forest – we had you at our mercy. Then out of nowhere this old hermit appears with the forest at his command and beats us black and blue while he carries you off into nowhere. _Who was he?_" It wasn't as if there was danger of Murtagh or Morzan finding Utopia Valley, so she didn't have to conceal Moot's existence, but Arya said nothing. She wouldn't betray her friend. Murtagh's face tightened in suppressed rage. "I'll ask you again, _dröttningu_: Who was he?"

The Rider's impatience didn't allow Arya to answer, even if she had wanted to. He struck her a heavy blow across the face, splitting her lip and causing her to stagger against the wall for support. Murtagh sucked in a heavy breath and Arya just glared at him. Shaking his head, he turned his back on her and motioned to his soldiers to take her.

While she tried to wrench her arms out of the iron grips of the men who'd seized her, Murtagh said; "No matter … you'll tell us what we want to know in due course … take her away." Morzan took the lead, handing Brayan over to his son as he commanded the way.

The dungeons were down the steps to the left of the door into the keep – and if possible, even darker and danker than the rest of the castle. Moans and whimpering could be heard from the cells she was manhandled past and – Arya was sure their path took that route on purpose – the torture chamber appeared to have been vacated moments beforehand. Through several more doors and round three tight corners, they arrived in a surprisingly well-light chamber with a line of cells chiselled out of amethyst.

"Ah … I see you have encountered this rock before … good. You need no explanation then." He grabbed Arya by the throat as the soldiers released her and dragged her further into the light so he could get a better look at her. "Hmm … well, well, well – Murtagh was right in saying what a pretty little thing you are, dröttningu." He ran a hand down her chest as he spoke.

Arya spat in his face.

And he hit her to the floor.

A movement in one of the cells caught her attention as Morzan yanked her to her feet and someone shuffled into the light; he placed his hands around the bars of his cell and cocked his head at her, despite the numerous and obviously painful injuries to his bare torso.

"What are you doing here?" she demanded.

Eragon grinned. "Rescuing you of course."

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><p>AN : _betcha weren't expecting that ... huh? or were you? am I predictable ... sorry ... I'll throw in more plot twists next time._


	40. Amethyst

**Amethyst**

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><p>Why Oromis insisted he bring along three of the Carvahall elves was beyond him. The elves in question weren't used to the mountains whereas he was – they were going to be cocky and overconfident and they were going to make it worse for him as well as themselves because they would assume the Spine no different to Du Weldenvarden. Oromis just ignored him when he pointed that all out.<p>

So much for being Lord Rider. Perhaps he ought to issue orders more often … and start punishing people for not obeying them … maybe then Oromis would take him seriously. Or not. Eragon wasn't too sure about his master – death _had_ changed him, but for better or worse he wasn't too sure. But right then he was certain it was for the worse as he strode through the Spine with three elves tagging behind him scampering along as if they owned the place. He'd lost count of the number of times he'd said it to them; no one owned the Spine.

Apparently they didn't listen.

So when the soldiers ambushed their camp and butchered the three elves, all he could think of was; _I did warn you not to trust this forest …_ as Murtagh's dead-men soldiers bound a length of rope round his wrists and shoved a sack over his head. They had taken even Eragon by surprise when they simply burst out of the bushes and attacked; whacked him a heavy blow round the back of his head as they went. Dazed and disorientated, Eragon watched his three companions as they were butchered by men who were already dead – not men, he realised, elves. Dead-Elves.

Through the material of the sack, he could hear the soldiers calling out to one another as they searched around the campsite for something or someone. Eragon closed his eyes and cleared his mind in preparation to use magic, but when he released the spell, his body jerked, spazaming and he cried out in pain. He toppled to the floor and someone landed him a kick in the ribs. "… too much amethyst around here …" he was sure someone said as he was picked up and dragged through the forest.

He detected the change in terrain from the wet earth of the forest to the hard stone of a castle and received several more blows in sensitive places when he tried to struggle. Eragon was half carried half dragged along a narrow corridor and then down several flights of stairs, along more corridors and then up a set of steps before he heard a door creak open. Next moment he was thrown bodily forwards where he landed painfully in a heap; the door clanged shut behind him and the unmistakable sounds of footsteps tramping away.

Groaning, Eragon struggled as he rolled onto his back and kicked himself backward until he came into contact with a wall. He pushed himself until he was sitting and then took on the process of shaking off the sack that had been shoved over his head. He didn't know how long it took him but eventually he managed to shake the sack off where it fell into his lap and Eragon spent another inexplicable amount of time trying to shake if from his lap onto the floor. His hands were tied behind his back which was extremely uncomfortable. Eragon sighed and let his head fall back against the wall behind him with a thud.

Something had been bothering him since the soldiers captured him. _Too much amethyst around here … _the fact that amethyst – the gem stone that blocked magic and rendered magicians, elves and Riders powerless – was quarried from the mountains around Lake Fläm had never registered before now. Maybe this was why Morzan had built his castle here – or why no Rider had ever come this way often in the past. He didn't blame Oromis for sending him with elves, he didn't blame the elves for their overconfident march through the Spine and he didn't blame the surroundings either for the ambush and subsequent capture – no, he blamed himself. Saphira had warned him to wait – to gather information and make sure the facts were straight – before rushing headlong into danger where the chance of actually succeeding in rescuing Arya single-handily were slim to none. In the back of his mind Eragon heard; _one part brave, three parts fool_.

_Were you any different?_ Eragon wondered. _What was it you said father? Be careful who you fall in love with for fate has a morbid interest in our family … seems fate's twisted design has us both here, chasing the women we love … to what end will become of us I wonder? Sitting here in the dark not knowing …_

Dim light filtered through a small barred opening in the door throwing into dull light the aesthetics of the room Eragon had been tossed into. His back and shoulders ached from the way he was sitting and how his wrists were bound together and he was hungry. Murtagh could have at least had the decency to tell his soldiers to wait until he'd eaten before attacking him. Was it too much to ask for a glass of water or a slice of bread? And where was Arya being held? How come Murtagh hadn't already stopped by to gloat at how his bait had worked so brilliantly and flawlessly?

Time passed inexplicably and Eragon had dozed off uncomfortably when the door to the room burst open. "Get up!" Eragon looked up blankly at the soldier and blinked. The soldier grabbed him under the armpit and hurled him upright; staggering Eragon was steered out of the room and along a corridor. It was dark and dingy and moans echoed from the cells that they passed. The walls were a dirty purple and as they passed under a smoking torch, Eragon realised the walls were either made out of or sheathed in amethyst. No wonder he had a roaring headache; the interference with his magical abilities wasn't going to cease.

The soldier steered him into a room dedicated to the extraction of information. As his eyes wondered over the implements lining the walls and laying on the tables he couldn't help the twinge of fear grip his stomach; but unlike Arya, his terror did not consume him, rather it calmed him down and heightened his senses to what was around him – adrenalin coursed through his veins. A set of manacles hung from a chain in the centre of the chamber. The soldier untied the rope from his wrists and locked them into the manacles. His elbows were level with his ears. The soldier then took a dagger from his waist and advanced upon Eragon, who, jaw clenched, held his ground and stared the man in the eye. The soldier looked away and cut away Eragon's shirt and tossed the material into a glowing brazier before turning on his heel and walking away without a word.

It was chill without his shirt. The chain clinked gently above him and the brazier crackled and hissed while moans and whimpers from down the corridor echoed to him and did not conjure up nice images of what was about to transpire. He didn't know how long he stood there, waiting, but his nerves were taught and he jumped at the smallest of noises. Eventually Eragon heard footsteps pounding towards him and his heart began to pound rapidly in his chest – he had barely enough time to settle his features into a mask of indifference before Murtagh, Morzan and a tall Urgal with half his face chewed off strode into view. The Urgal wasn't _quite_ Kull, but he was far off.

Eragon looked at his half-brother and resisted the urge to clench his fists; Murtagh would notice the gesture and smirk.

Murtagh sat down on a three-legged stool while Morzan prowled the walls lined with implements of pain and the Urgal stood with his arms crossed in the archway reeking of death. (Well, he was _supposed_ to be dead so it wasn't a surprise). Murtagh looked at him for a long moment as he pulled off his leather gauntlets and removed his plush jerkin with scarlet threading. Getting to his feet, Murtagh walked over so he stood toe to toe with Eragon and raised a hand to trace out the white scar in his chest. Eragon shivered and shied away from his cold hands. Funnily enough it wasn't Murtagh's hands he imagined tracing out that scar when he laid down to dream. Murtagh smirked and walked round to inspect the matching scar on Eragon's back where Zar'roc had emerged from his body.

"The skill of the elves is unequalled," he said softly, now examining the scar on Eragon's head that severed the top of his right ear. "Did it hurt … Brother? When I shoved my father's blade into your chest? Did you feel my revenge as your life trickled away down the stream? Recompense for your father murdering mine. If only the old fool was alive to know the son of Morzan had killed his own son."

Eragon said nothing. He decided that no matter how Murtagh goaded him he wouldn't utter a sound, not even in pain. Regardless of whatever happened, he would not give Murtagh and his father the satisfaction of knowing that they were getting to him, and he would not betray any secret, even if it was revealed that someone had betrayed him. He just stared at his brother with a blank mask mentally preparing himself for what was, inevitably, about to occur.

"Even so," Murtagh was saying, "I had my revenge years ago …" he smirked at Eragon, obviously savouring whatever it was he was about to say. "Ah see, when I saw him, I knew who he was and even though I hated my father …" he paused and glanced, almost apprehensively, at Morzan, "I still knew my duty as his son." Murtagh stepped close to Eragon and whispered into what remained of his right ear. "You were unconscious and Saphira had yet to wake. The dagger hadn't gone in deep and he would've lived … I pushed it in deeper and twisted the blade of the Raz'ac into his heart. Your father may have been wounded by the Raz'ac, but _I_ am the one who killed Brom."

It took all of Eragon's considerable self-control to remain impassive at that revelation. Deep in his gut he yearned to throw himself at his half-brother and rip the traitorous elder son of Selena to shreds. He settled for clenching his fists, his fingernails digging into his palms and the grazes on his knuckles (from where he'd punched the mound his father's house had been hidden under) stretched, the scabs cracking.

Murtagh frowned when Eragon didn't respond. He took a step backwards. "Huh …" sitting down on the stool he nodded to his father, but whatever Morzan did Eragon didn't see for the man was beyond his vision. Murtagh was chewing on the inside of his cheek. Close to, Eragon noted how pale and parched his brother appeared and the bags under his eyes and the blood-shot quality to them (well to the eye that still worked, since Eragon had effectively blinded him in the other eye). If he had to describe Murtagh in one word, it'd be ill. Murtagh looked ill.

"Well … no matter. Not like my killing your father changes anything … Did you get that book I asked for?"

_What book?_

Eragon looked at the large hulking Urgal in the archway as Murtagh smirked. "Father didn't believe you'd fall for it. He said you were Brom's son and therefore had the same degree of intelligence he had … he said you'd see straight through the deception. Seems I'm right."

A horrible suspicion began to dawn on Eragon.

"You see, and I hate to admit this to you brother dear, but your darling Arya got away from us in the woods."

_It's a forest you ass head._

"Some old hermit came and carried her away so I doubt you'll ever see her again – no, scratch that; you _won't_, see her again. But," Murtagh smiled, "you see the loss of such a perfect bait presented me with a problem: how to get you here."

Eragon's mind raced; even if what Murtagh was saying was true, that didn't necessarily mean Arya was safe – besides the Spine was huge and wild and dangerous to those that trespassed without understanding that _they_ were the ones out of place. Murtagh was speaking.

"All in good time … I want you to understand how I managed it." He waited, but Eragon didn't speak again. "It's not difficult," Murtagh spoke all blasé, tossing his head back. "I manipulated your dreams – we're brothers you see, and a connection such as that provides interesting ways of manipulation through magic. But anyways, I manipulated your dream to present you with the knowledge that your darling Arya was being held captive by me – and tortured – and that you needed to get here as soon as possible. I don't know how the information was presented to you but that's not important is it? You came and here you are, at my mercy, and we can begin."

Murtagh sucked in a deep breath and then nodded to his father again. Eragon heard the crack of a whip and it slicing through the air and then … _pain._

The time he'd spent preparing himself mentally for what was about to happen – Eragon might as well as prayed to the dwarven gods – or to Arven.

His knees buckled and he sagged to the floor, held upright by the manacles in which his wrists were locked into. But he clenched his jaw and refused to cry out. He didn't care what happened, but he would _not_ beg for the torment to stop or cry out in agony; he would take it all in silence. There comes a time when the body becomes numb to pain and it becomes nothing more than a dull ache that wares the mind down and chips at the soul. He didn't notice when the whipping stopped.

Someone tossed a bucket of cold water over his head and he gasped. Someone also grabbed his hair and yanked his head back.

"… say about controlling the Stone of Táldris?"

The question made no sense to Eragon; just a strange jumble of words that were mumbled and resonated into a dull throb into his mind. If they asked him again he didn't remember – but he assumed they must have because he was in agony again. His fingernails embedded into his palms and blood trickling down his arms from where he'd cut his wrists on the manacles. He had lost the ability to stand and was mildly thankful for the way his arms were suspended for it kept him off the floor.

Some innumerable time later he woke up on his front in a cell carved out of amethyst. Scraps of straw littered the ground and a dull light illuminated the area outside of his dungeon cell; he groaned and winced as he got his arms underneath him, pushing himself onto his hands and knees where he was able to turn and sit with his arms around his knees. His entire being throbbed with pain – a feverish shaking overtook his limbs and he was sweating despite the chill in the air.

He didn't even remember what information Murtagh had wanted out of him.

As he laid back and let his head fall against the stone floor, Eragon wondered dully how long he had until Murtagh had him dragged back to that chamber. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a little voice reminded him that Arya had suffered like this for almost six months … at the hand of Durza the Shade. Her words at how she'd almost lost her mind suddenly mad sense to him – it wouldn't take all that much for someone to turn mad in such circumstances. Along the corridor the pacing tramp of footfalls stopped outside the door to his cell. The hinges creaked and he was hurled to his feet and dragged down the corridor once more to the chamber where Murtagh, Morzan and the Urgal-that-was-supposed-to-be-dead gathered round while he refused yet again to make a sound.

And so it continued. The endless repeat of pain – agonizing, mind blowing, soul devouring, unbearable _pain_ – and the short sweet moments of a respite that was always interrupted by the pounding of feet, the marching of soldiers. It honestly could've been years and Eragon wouldn't have known. There was no window in his cell – and nor did he glimpse any daylight when he was taken to the chamber of torment – and so he had no way to count the hours; the torches that smoked seemed to burn endlessly for he never saw anyone replacing them.

In his heart Eragon began to long for death. Murtagh would keep going at him until he passed out, and when he awoke it was either from having his head shoved into a bucket of ice water or he was lying in a heap on the dirty floor of his amethyst cell. The walls around his mind were unbreached, though not from lack of trying on the part of Murtagh and his father; the years of practise with Blödhgarm had paid off, not to mention the techniques Oromis had reminded and retaught him in during their months in Ilirea.

Meaningless drabble floated round his mind that not even he understood. He reflected, quite alarmingly, that he was upon the brink of insanity … _bright the moon glows green … the raven's yellow beak … summer sun upon a chill wok freeze … misty mountains breeze …_ when he was rational, he spent his time clinging desperately onto the shreds of his fragile sanity; clung to who he was and what he was before he became nothing more than a creature of agony, torment and madness.

It was the changing in rhythm that caught his attention – so used to the steady marching he detected an off-beat, as if someone was walking out of time, tripping and stumbling over feet as they were half dragged along the corridor. Now, Eragon had always been of a curious nature, and so, instead, perhaps, of staying put to rest his wounds and injuries (of which there were many) he staggered to his feet and proceeded to the bars of his cell.

Morzan appeared in the cleared area before the amethyst cells. He turned to the soldiers, who held between them a very wet and bedraggled captive, and grabbed her (the clothing left no doubt as to the gender of the captive – no man had a torso that curved like that) by the throat and dragged her, struggling to escape, into the light. He said something about how good it was she had already encountered amethyst and its effects on magic before and took a long, unwholesome, leer at her. "Well, well, well – Murtagh was right in saying what a pretty little thing you are, dröttningu."

_Wait …_ Eragon could be forgiven for the slowness of his mind to register what was said, _dröttningu …_

Murtagh ran a hand down her chest – which, inexplicably, sent a hot rage flowing through Eragon's gut … and managed to clear away the pain-dulled fog he had been wallowing in for the past, who knew how many days. A surge of pride welled up inside him as Arya spat into Morzan's face.

Morzan hit her solidly round the face, where she staggered to the floor in a heap. He kicked her in the ribs and then grabbed her by the hair to drag her to her feet. Pain flickered across Arya's face as she got her feet underneath her. Eragon stepped forwards, placing his bruised hands round the bars of his cell and watched Arya, wondering where she had been and where she had gotten the new clothes from. Arya blinked, confusion and exasperation making her momentarily forget the situation they had found themselves in.

"What are you doing here?" she demanded.

Eragon couldn't resist; he grinned at her – the first in days (possibly weeks). "Rescuing you of course."

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><p>AN : _i didnt want to go too into detail about eragon's torture, since I needed this chapter to cover a lot and get us to where were ended last chapter (if that even makes sense). But horrarry they're reunited _again _now all they have to do is tell the other how they feel, break the hell out of morzan's castle - steal the stone, chuck it into the void and defeat murty ... piece of cake? right? whatcha say - bout another chapter's worth left ... no? what's that i hear: you want MORE? jeeze guys i never expected it to get to fricking 40 chapters and still not finished! buuuuuuuuuut i am not stopping 'till it's over. as they say 'it aint over till the fat lady sings' (where does that even come from anyway?) i shall go now and stop boring you all with this drabble that no one ever reads ... bye ...__  
><em>

_... no seriously, bye._


	41. Silence At What Cost?

**Silence At What Cost?**

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><p>Morzan's intent and desire was evident in the way he looked at her. Out of the corner of her eye, Arya could see Eragon's barely controlled rage as he tightened his grip on the bars of his cell. The traitor had her backed up against a low table and had already yanked the soft brown hood from her shoulders and was now fixating upon the neckline of her jerkin. Morzan might have made his move on her if a soldier hadn't of interrupted to say that Murtagh and Brayan were waiting upon him for dinner.<p>

With a regretful sigh, Morzan spun on his heel and marched out of sight. His voice echoing back as he issued orders; "Put her in with him – and take him to the chamber." Arya glanced across the intervening space at Eragon; she couldn't read his face. The soldier grabbed her by the throat and shoved her against the wall as he unlocked Eragon's cell, she struggled but the soldier had been elven and so she had not the advantage of strength.

In his defence, Eragon _did_ attempt to fight. It was just that the dead-elf anticipated it for he shoved Arya bodily into the cell, and into Eragon, as he was aiming a solid punch at their assailant. The two of them crumpled to the floor in a tangle of limbs, Arya's head pounding from Eragon's blow as he landed on top of her. For a moment they lay there and Arya's mind briefly observed how comfortable it felt lying as they were with Eragon's weight pressing into her – if Fírnen were about he'd snap at her to stop daydreaming. Eragon was yanked off her abruptly and she heard the clang of the cell door closing as footsteps paced away.

Gingerly, she got to her feet and inspected the cell. Carved or constructed entirely from amethyst, magic wasn't going to help her here. Arya touched her cheek and winced; Eragon packed a rather hefty punch. Closing her eyes, Arya slid to the floor leaning against the back wall of the cell. Licking her lips, she tasted blood and shook her head. _Now what?_ She asked herself dully. _Now what? You're right back where you never wanted to be again … _

She actually dozed off for a while – the sounds of Eragon being thrown in a heap into the cell along with the spiteful laugh as the soldier locked the cell bought her out of her dreams. Opening her eyes, she saw Eragon stirring feebly in the dim light. She pushed herself forwards and crawled towards where he had been discarded. Fresh wounds littered his torso – most of which were deep and just by looking Arya could tell they were painful. His breathing was shallow and ragged; Arya rolled him onto his back and felt his heart stammering beneath her hand. Neither conscious nor unconscious Eragon lay there as Arya cradled his head in her lap, his breathing laboured, his heart erratic and his body trembling.

"Do you remember when we met?" Eragon asked some time later. He spoke in a whisper while the sounds of the dungeon echoed around them.

A smile flickered across her lips. "I remember. I remember you bursting into my cell. I knew you weren't part of the empire – you were too young … too innocent."

Eragon shook his head in her lap. "You can't count that as a meeting," he murmured. "I meant – when we fought in Farthen Dûr.

"You fought well … for a weakling."

He chuckled feebly. "I told myself I'd take it easy on you … I just didn't count on you at your worst being better than me at my best."

"I wasn't at my worst," Arya murmured "… but not at my best as you said."

"You were toying with me." There was a note of accusation in his voice and Arya bit her lip.

"I wanted to know what you could do."

"You could've just asked."

Arya laughed again – impulse making her lean down and kiss his forehead. "No. No I couldn't."

He closed his eyes and sighed. When he opened them again he looked up at her and Arya felt her heart leap and stutter. He had come to the same revelation as she had; a realisation that only a long awaited reunion and then a sudden forced separation could expose. In his eyes she watched him come to that same conclusion – that they were upon the same page and in perfect understanding of one another. She wanted to speak but there wasn't really anything to say – apart from the obvious comments about stupidity and stubbornness.

A small laugh of irony came from Eragon; "The dragons are going to be unbearable."

Arya groaned. "Don't. Just don't. Fírnen's bad enough as it is …" Eragon closed his eyes tight with pain and tried to sit up, wincing from the movement. "No … don't – lie still …" but he ignored her – forcing his battered body upright where he leant against the amethyst bars of their cell. "Or … you know … ignore my brilliant advice."

She slumped down beside him as he let his head fall back against the bars of the cell. The faint light cast deep shadows over his glistening torso and his chest heaved while the vein in his neck pulsed – he was in more pain than he let on, whether out of sheer stubbornness or some twisted masculine theory that to show he was in agony was to show weakness he was trying to pretend he didn't hurt as much as he did. But now wasn't the time to discuss it when their situation looked as bleak as it could get.

"We need to get out of here."

"Any ideas?" Eragon asked dully. "Using magic won't work."

"What about the powers you used to destroy Nexx?" Arya looked at him as he took a deep breath, his fists clenched causing the muscles in his arms to flex. Her eyes wondered to the definition of the muscles on his chest and stomach, observing that even with all the injuries and wounds and the dried blood, dirt and grim, he was extremely attractive: why she was coming to such a conclusion now when they had spent may a day fighting and training in Ilirea with Eragon in varying stages of shirtlessness was beyond her. She swiftly looked away, heartily grateful that the amethyst meant his awareness was contained within his head – just the thought of him, or anyone, sensing what direction her traitorous mind was heading in was enough to make her blush. Thankfully the light was too dim for Eragon to notice.

"Hearts of Táldris …" he snorted. Arya shot him a look.

"What did you say?"

He frowned and turned to her. "Something I read in a book … why?"

"Nothing, it's just Moot said that rock you tried to steal back in Osilon was the key to stopping Murtagh. He called it the Stone of Táldris."

"Moot?"

"Later. He also said that voice you heard came from the Stone –"

"I know. I figured that out already."

Ignoring his interruption Arya continued. "_And_ he said something about you learning to use your abilities."

"Abilities?" Eragon looked at the cell door, half talking to himself. "If he wanted me to read the book so I could instruct him how to control the Stone then maybe …" he frowned and trailed off.

"Maybe?" Arya prompted gently.

"We need to get out of here."

"You don't say … how did you even get here in the first place?" Arya asked. "Moot told me you were under the impression Murtagh held me captive but he didn't say how you came to that conclusion."

"Moot said this, Moot said that … who is this Moot?" Eragon stared at her for a long time. She tried to ignore how his gaze kept wondering to her figure just as hers got distracted by his … she definitely wasn't trying her hardest to ignore how close they were or the fact that Eragon's shoulder was brushing hers or that she could feel the warmth of his skin against hers and remember how it felt to have his weight pressing upon her or the fact that her body seemed to betraying what her mind was thinking …

"Just … an admirer."

"Admirer?"

"Of yours. He lives in the mountains and likes the fact that you don't trample through the Spine as if you own the place."

"Only an idiot does that," Eragon muttered. The inevitable tramp of footfalls marched steadily towards them, effectively ending their conversation. Hoping that they would pass by their cell was probably too much to ask for – and sure enough the door clanged open and two dead-soldiers entered, grabbed Eragon and dragged him bodily from the cell. Once again she was left alone in the dimness with the echoes of the dungeons around her and the cold causing her to shiver.

She huddled at the back of the cell waiting for the soldiers to bring Eragon back, and dreading the state he'd be in. However the guards returned empty handed; unlocking the cell, Murtagh strode in, absently wiping his hands on a rag, which he dropped to the floor. She refused to take a second glance and check if that was blood on that rag – Murtagh probably wanted that. One of the guards bought in a stool and then left, closing the cell behind him. Murtagh sat in the way of the door and stared at Arya for a long time.

"Annoying isn't it? Him being so silent."

Up until that point Arya hadn't realised that she'd heard no sounds from the chamber from Eragon – those inflicting the pain and torment yes, but no noise from him.

"He could be dead and how would you know? I could've killed him hours ago and left you here to wait for his return …"

Arya held Murtagh's gaze. It was hard to believe that he'd once aided Eragon in rescuing her from Gil'ead … much had changed since then. She had sensed in him that aptitude for darkness, but did not think he would be so cowardly to yield to it as he had done …

"He's not dead – in case you're wondering. But he soon will be, unless he tells me what I want to know."

"He may not have the information you want." Arya pointed out.

Murtagh laughed. "I made sure he came here with it, Princess. You see, his father acquired a book – a rather unique book written by the elven Rider Hlfver. In this book was recorded the lore and teachings of the Riders – information that was too important to be lost, for much of the Riders' teachings and learnings have been lost. One such subject was upon the Nine Hearts of Táldris. I trust you know of whom I speak? My sources tell me they are a subject of history much favoured by your song writers at present …"

"You talk too much."

Sneering, Murtagh hit her lazily across the jaw. "In this book also lies the tale of how magic was once Magic – raw and untameable. That force is what lies within the Stone of Táldris and what the Nine Hearts use to weave their inexplicable feats of nature. Eragon is being uncooperative at present … I went to great lengths to put the book into his hands so he'd acquire the information for me … but he seems unwilling to share it with his big brother."

Arya's jaw was aching. If he hit her again she was sure it would break. "What's that got to do with me?" she asked.

Murtagh's sneer grew wider. "I'm so glad you asked …" the guards re-entered the cell and dragged Arya to her feet. One yanked off the leather jerkin Moot had given her while the other tied a length of rope around her wrists. She was glad she had put on the linen vest in the end, when surveying the clothing Moot provided, Arya wasn't going to wear the vest at first – on account of the neckline reaching her naval with nothing to tie it together – but decided it would be an extra layer if she got cold. "No really," Murtagh was saying, "I am thankful you understand the situation so well."

The guards each grabbed an arm and steered her out of the amethyst cell along an amethyst corridor through the amethyst dungeons. "But then, this is hardly a situation you are unfamiliar with now is it?"

Arya closed tight her eyes as Murtagh's words stirred up the panic within her.

"According to the reports Durza made … your resolve to not scream lasted a day. If that." The memories she had of those months were sketchy and incomplete – shrouded in fog to the point where they seemed muted, as if the memories did not belong to her. But she did remember the beginning; the fear she tried to hide and the unexpected level of agony she was forced to endure. She had been told how people go mad but had always shaken it off as nothing more than pain; if you could master your pain then you could master yourself … at least, that was what she had told herself until Durza's whip descended.

"Now the last report – they're all upstairs, in case you were wondering. Galbatorix sent me here not long after Thorn hatched to study. He said Durza's reports lent an entertaining read – anyway, if my memory is correct, that last report of his stated how he _finally_ managed to break you and that you were ready to spill all the Varden's little secrets to the King when you were presented to him. He promised to keep you in that state of brokenness until he had you brought to Urû'baen. Of course that's where Eragon and I come in isn't it?"

He kept up a light tone that echoed through the corridors – she was sure he spoke as loudly as he did so that the sound would carry to where they had Eragon. Arya stumbled and felt sick to the gut as Murtagh carried on.

"Have you told him? That all his efforts were for nothing? I mean – he went searching in every dungeon we passed as we travelled to Gil'ead: pot luck the Urgals found him and took him to Durza outside Gil'ead. If he hadn't been caught then he'd never have found you and the Varden would've been nothing more than ashes by the time he reached them."

She was trembling by the time they reached the tormentation chamber. Her legs barely capable of supporting her weight and her panic overwhelming her need to retain dignity as she dropped like a lead weight to the ground when the guards let her go. Murtagh stepped over her and addressed whoever else was in the room; Arya took the time to wage war upon her anxiety, subduing it enough to regain rationality and reason, despite her blood pumping and her heart racing and her nerves stung taught ready to snap.

Lifting her gaze she found Eragon already looking at her. His wrists were locked in a pair of manacles suspended from the ceiling and he hung limply from them, his knees about a foot off the ground. In her state her mind refused to register the severity of the injuries upon his body: when she saw him hanging there the world tipped and suddenly _she _was the one hanging by her wrists above the ground while Durza circled her, selecting which instrument to use upon her next.

Shaking her head, Arya's eyes fell to the pool of blood that collected on the ground. She looked away; everything reminded her of that which she didn't want to remember. Again she lifted her gaze to Eragon, who seemed to be trying to communicate something to her without Murtagh and the guards noticing. He kept darting his eyes to another spot and back again. Frowning, Arya tried to follow where his gaze kept returning to and spotted a battered key lying on the ground. Not any key, an _amethyst_ key – the key to their cell. What's more it was only a couple feet from where she knelt. Arya glanced back to him and blinked to let him know she understood.

Murtagh resumed his talking, pacing Eragon as Durza used to pace Arya. Ignoring it, Arya focused her thoughts upon getting that key – which helped to abate her panic. She got unsteadily to her feet only, as she had predicted, for the dead-elf guard to knock her back down again; she made sure she fell a within reach of the amethyst key lying abandoned and unnoticed on the ground. It must be a spare because she spotted another exactly like it on a ring at the dead-elf's side. Arya landed in a painful heap on the ground and couldn't help the gasp of pain as her shoulder struck the stone; it was painful. However the key was safely hidden from view in her hand. A few more struggling movements to disguise what she was doing and the key was stuck in the lining of the waistband of her leggings.

She just finished when Murtagh seized a handful of her hair and yanked her head back, exposing her throat. Her mother's dagger was placed against it and Murtagh pulled her painfully to her feet so he could manoeuvre her to within Eragon's range of vision. With one hand upon her stomach and the other holding the dagger to her neck, he demanded Eragon tell him what he wanted to know. She didn't hear his actual words because that spiteful panic had resumed its control of her body and mind and emotions.

Eragon must have refused because next thing she knew the dagger was gone (leaving a nasty cut on her collar bone) and Murtagh was forcing her face closer and closer to the hot coals of the brazier. Instinct took over as she struggled to free herself; already the heat was uncomfortable. Though she struggled and even cried out slightly, she did not beg. Her dignity had returned enough to prevent that from happening – but it was a very close thing as Murtagh's unyielding efforts to get Eragon to talk forced her face into the hot coals.

"Tell me!" Murtagh roared. If she hadn't been so preoccupied, Arya would've seen Eragon's face a picture of tormentation; agonising over his duty as a Rider and the duty he had to his heart. She would not ask him to betray his beliefs and his ideals for anything, not even for her. The some of the coal flickered alight and the flames began to lick the side of her face – Arya tried not to let on how much it hurt, if felt like her face was melting.

Murtagh went to shove her face entirely into the coals when Eragon yelled; "Wait!" Murtagh pulled her back slightly – enough that she was out of immediate range of more agony and pain. Eragon's shout still hung in the chamber.

"Well?" Murtagh demanded. "Who had the power to tame the forces of nature and bind them to the language older than time?"

Wearily Eragon said, "You sure pick your moments, _brother_. Now is not a time for poetics – but in answer to your question it was, though I thought it obvious, a being greater than any upon this earth. Who else has might enough to accomplish what you speak of?"

Arya closed her eyes. _Riddles won't settle him._

"But the story is told through out Alagaësia – should you venture to a warm communal hearth once in a while, brother, you might hear of it. Arven is the name you seek; and a God is he, for who other than a god can bind forces unpredictable and untameable to a mere language and get truth?"

There was a few moments of tense silence, for Murtagh could not accuse Eragon of lying since he had said it all in the ancient language. He also needed a moment to translate what Eragon had said into a language he understood – which was where Eragon surpassed his brother, being able to think in the ancient language as well as the one he had been born with.

"I … well – that's …" he shoved Arya's head into the brazier.

What happened next, Eragon never satisfyingly told her: unable to move for Murtagh held her down, Arya was only dimly aware of her surroundings, or that it was her voice filling the chamber. It occurred sometime later (or no time at all) that she had been knocked to the floor and people were shouting. The fall must've caused her to black out because when she opened her eyes it was to find the interior of the amethyst cell lingering above her and her mind clear from the foggy haze of pain. That wasn't to say she felt no pain, because she did – a lot of it – but it didn't drown everything out as it had done when inflicted.

Eragon sat in the shadiest corner of the cell. As Arya pushed herself into a sitting position, she felt his gaze watching but other than that he did or said nothing. She could feel the guilt radiating off him from where she was but wasn't ready for the argument that would ensure when she tried to tell him it wasn't his fault. He'd argue that it was. The burn on the left side of her face felt raw and bloody and she dared not touch it – the cool air stung and an unceasing pain throbbed angrily with the beat of her heart.

Taking a deep breath, Arya got unsteadily to her feet. She paused for a moment, checking that it was still there, and then hobbled over to Eragon. Taking his hand in hers she pulled him to his feet, trying hard not to faint or get distracted by the fact he was at least a head taller than her. She stumbled and Eragon grabbed her arm to steady her.

"What are you doing?" he asked. She shook her head and ignored him, rather she made her way across the cell – using the bars as support – and reached the door. Arya peered through the bars to find no one was currently in sight and then fumbled with the lining on the waistband of her leggings, slipping out the amethyst key. "Arya …"

Inserting the key into the lock, Arya twisted and heard it click. The door swung free of the catch and Arya let go, watching it swing open; she swayed and would've fallen had Eragon not caught her. "You amaze me," he murmured into her ear. "I want you to rest, but …"

"But we need to go." She finished quietly. Disentangling herself from him, Arya regained her balance and stepped out of the cell. "Come on …" she sagged against the low table Morzan had backed her up against sometime earlier while Eragon reclosed the door and locked it – he also pocketed the key just in case. In the light he looked shockingly pale and the injuries he received doubled in severity as the true brutality of their nature could be seen. The side of Arya's head throbbed and she nearly collapsed on the spot, the world spinning and dancing before her eyes in a haze of smoky fire and ash.

Again Eragon caught her. She shook and buried her face in his chest, forgetting his own pain as hers reached new heights; Arya felt his arms tighten around her and knew she was as safe as she ever could be.

"I … I should've …"

"Don't." Arya muttered. "Please. I don't want to argue."

"But –"

"Just hold me."

* * *

><p>AN : _yeah ... my longest chapter yet ... and um - as for 'the incident' well - i'm sorry. I didn't plan for it ...__  
><em>


	42. A Matter Of Timing

**A Matter of Timing**

* * *

><p>As much as she wanted to stay with her face pressed against Eragon's chest she knew that the longer they lingered the more likely it was their freedom would be short-lived. Eragon seemed to have the same thought because he gently pushed her back and took her hand in his as he led the way towards the exit. Arya's legs felt like lead and she held tight to his arm as they walked down the corridor towards the chamber of tormentation and the door to the rest of the castle. Eragon paused, and glanced at Arya. In the torchlight his wounds and injuries glistened – a shadow fell over his face as he looked at her and she could almost see his mind planning and potting his revenge.<p>

"If we let the rest of the prisoners out," he began, "the subsequent riot will give us distraction enough to find the Stone and get out of here."

"You do it then," Arya murmured, sagging against the wall. "I'll wait …"

He kissed her brow and slipped round the corner, seemingly immune and unaware of the injuries he had sustained. Injuries Arya knew from experience nagged and pained and seemed to chip slowly away at a person's resolve until the primary thought raging through the mind was the need for the agony to stop – the knowledge that whatever the price it would be paid so long as the misery and torment ended. Arya's head felt full with the suffering of slow intensity that seared, angrily refusing to abate or even lessen in its fury. Her legs gave way and she slid to the floor as the pounding of tormented souls thundered through the amethyst dungeons and stampeded towards the exit, trampling guards and the less-fortunate to death.

Through the gloom of the dungeon Arya saw a guard hastily fumbling through the keys at his belt as he stood before a door beside her. He glanced down, a hideous grin on his face since the flesh was rotted; for a moment they stared at one another until a loud bang (probably a cell door being kicked off its hinges) startled them both into the reality of the situation. Arya lunged at his knees, tackling him to the ground – adrenalin gave her strength enough to overpower the guard and send him back into the void. Shakily she grabbed the keys from his belt and fell back against the wall panting. During the tussle she'd received an elbow to the left side of her face and now she was sure it was bleeding.

Footsteps pounded down the corridor and three raggedy prisoners descended upon her, wrenching the keys from her grip and unlocking the door the guard had tried to open. They barged into the room leaving Arya in a heap and she read a crude inscription upon the door saying 'confiscated weaponry'. Perfect. Just perfect. Now the rioting prisoners were armed with … _with Eragon's sword!_ The three men scampered out wielding the finest weapons they could lay their grubby hands on, which obviously included Brisingr.

"No!" Arya called after them. "Stop … No!"

The halted and returned to her, dragging her up to her feet and pinning her against the wall. "Wot you wantin'?" one asked through a mouthful of broken teeth.

Another grabbed a torch from the bracket and shone it in her face, "Looky at you, Pretty …"

"Pretty?" the third echoed. "She's missing haf 'er face!"

"Still pretty though," the first pointed out. "Betcha she's even prett'er wiv out them clothes on."

Arya's attempts to free herself of the three prisoners were futile since she had hardly the energy left to stand. "That … that sword," she gasped, trying to prise the second prisoner's fingers from her throat.

"Nice lookin' fing aint it?" the one with broken teeth leered.

"It … it's not – not yours!"

"Is now. Finders keepers." The other two laughed. "And you need t' shut yer mouth or we'll do it for ya!"

Panic was becoming Arya's natural state. The three men stepped closer to her still and the one wielding Eragon's sword jabbed her in the side with it causing her to flinch. "Stay … stay away …!"

"Whatcha gunna do t' stop us?"

_Eragon!_

Her eyes fell once more on Brisingr … "It's not your sword," she said feebly. "He – he won't let you take it," the threat was feeble: she hadn't a clue where Eragon was and no way of contacting him short of a shout – which she was _not_ going to do. Her dignity just didn't allow it.

"Who won't?" the one with broken teeth ogled, echoing the motion Morzan had made deliberately to unsettle Eragon.

"I won't."

Eragon grabbed two of the men and yanked them away from Arya. They instantly raised their stolen weapons to attack him while the third – the one with the broken teeth seized her arm and held her stationary at sword point. Eragon took no trouble disarming and overpowering the two prisoners; they landed in a heap on the floor groaning with broken bones and pounding heads. Eragon turned to the man who had stolen his sword.

The prisoner made the mistake of hesitating. Arya didn't know how he did it – but when Eragon spoke the name of his sword it ignited and burst into flames. The prisoner howled as his hand burned to ash; Brisingr clattered to the ground and the man looked up in a mixture of awe and fear as Eragon picked up his still burning sword. Arya had staggered against the wall away from the flames as the heat prickled her face. Eragon loomed over the man with the broken teeth and hefted his sword in preparation to strike – Arya suddenly remembered the stubbornness Eragon had spoken with after he'd explained why he remained at Helgrind instead of returning to the Varden with Saphira, Roran and Katrina.

"_You should have killed him."_

"_Maybe, but I couldn't."_

"_Just because you find your task distasteful is no reason to shirk it. You were a coward."_

_She watched as Eragon bridled at her accusation. "Was I? Anyone with a knife could have killed Sloan. What I did was far harder."_

"_Physically, but not morally."_

"_I didn't kill him because I thought it was wrong." Eragon frowned with concentration as he searched for the words to explain himself. "I wasn't afraid … not that. Not after going into battle. … It was something else. I will kill in war. But I won't take it upon myself to decide who lives and who dies. I don't have the experience or the wisdom. … Every man has a line he won't cross, Arya, and I found mine when I looked upon Sloan. Even if I had Galbatorix as my captive, I would not kill him. I would take him to Nasuada and King Orrin, and if they condemned him to death, then I would happily lop off his head, but not before. Call it weakness if you will, but that is how I am made, and I won't apologise for it."_

"_You will be a tool, then, wielded by others?" She demanded._

"_I will serve the people as best I can. I've never aspired to lead. Alagaësia does not need another tyrant king."_

_Arya rubbed her temples. "Why does everything have to be so complicated with you Eragon? No matter where you go, you seem to get yourself mired in difficult situations. It's as if you make an effort to walk through every bramble in the land."_

"_Your mother said much the same."_

"_I am not surprised. … Very well, let it be. Neither of us is about to change our opinions, and we have more pressing concerns than arguing about justice and morality. In the future, though, you would do well to remember who you are and what you mean to the races of Alagaësia."_

"_I never forgot."_

She pushed off the wall and held him back, one hand resting over his heart and the other upon his sword arm. "You are not your brother. Eragon … you are not a murderer."

His resolve ebbed away and he staggered back a few steps, the fire in his sword dying. Eragon let Brisingr clatter to the ground as he slumped against the wall, panting and shaking. Arya pressed her head against his shoulder her own heart pounding.

"He … he was – _they_ were …"

"But they didn't." Arya said sharply into his shoulder. "I – I'm …"

"Don't you dare try and tell me you're fine." He snapped. "What … what happened?" Eragon asked after a moment or two of silence."

"They were stealing your sword," Arya told him quietly. Now it seemed like such a stupid thing to make a fuss over – but Eragon had gone to great lengths to get Rhunön to forge that blade for him, she couldn't let someone steal it without saying something.

"It's just a sword," Eragon told her.

Arya didn't have anything to say. Eragon got to his feet, peering down the corridor – the man who had wanted to force her was nowhere in sight. Stooping, Eragon picked up Brisingr and buckled the sheath around his waist, sliding the sword home as he did. Sounds of escaped prisoners echoed around them – by now surely they would've got the attention of the castle guards. Eragon was surveying her in concern but she shook it off: she couldn't afford to dwell – they needed to get that damned rock before Murtagh and Morzan restored control and order.

"Help me up," she commanded. Eragon took her hand in his and pulled her gently to her feet where she sagged against him for a moment, shaking. He made to hold her tightly but she stepped back and led the way towards the door to the rest of the castle, glad she couldn't see whatever face he was pulling as he strode along behind her. Signs of fighting were evident in the corridor Arya had been cornered in – bodies of both rotting dead-soldiers and prisoners alike littered the floor and blood stained the dark stone.

"Where abouts do you think it'll be?" Eragon asked. Wisely he had taken her lead in not talking about what happened down in those amethyst dungeons.

"It's up on the third level – in Murtagh's living quarters. They've hidden it in a secret room but no doubt they've added wards around the room now, since that's where Brayan found me and alerted the castle to my presence."

"Who? The boy who took a shining to you in that village?"

"The very same … come on." She left him no choice but to follow her since she was both unarmed and weak. They had to fight their way up to the third level – that is to say, Eragon fought while she held back out of harm's way … which she hated. She was perfectly capable of defending herself! While he was preoccupied, Arya pressed her hand against the jagged cut in her side and then looked at the blood upon her fingers. Wincing she replaced her hand and followed Eragon up the stairs, stepping over rotting corpses and scavenging a battered sword for herself as she went by.

Several escapees had made it unhindered to Murtagh's living quarters and were busy looting and generally dismantling the place. Ignoring them, Arya led the way to the tapestry that hid the door from view – hoping Murtagh hadn't moved it to another location otherwise they'd have to search the entire castle. She placed her hand on the handle and then paused and turned to Eragon. "Up to any more elemental Magic?" she asked.

He shrugged. "I can't control it … it just – happens."

"When you're angry or highly emotional," Arya said, "You'd do better as a woman …"

"Hey!"

She tried to grin, but the muscles in her face protested so she turned away before Eragon could see her grimace and opened the door. They both tensed in preparation for short and painfully quick deaths but nothing happened … taking a deep breath Arya entered the room before Eragon could stop her and charge in first. The lack of wards upon the room was disturbing. Rolling her eyes, Arya beckoned Eragon in and turned to the cushioned pedestal.

Glistening as though it held the light of a thousand stars, the Stone of Táldris caused a faint glow to illuminate the circular room. This time Arya made sure to check the shadowy corners as she stepped forwards to lift the stone down … "We'll need something to carry it in," she said. He nodded.

"Yeah – but I'm not leaving you behind again."

Arya hid her irritability. "How long have we known each other now Eragon?"

He shrugged, "I don't know – I lost track of time on that island. A while."

"And you still insist on treating me like some helpless human!"

"No! I …" he worked his jaw and glared at her. Arya didn't know if he was going to march out of the room or shove her against the nearest surface and kiss her; if his expression was anything to go by he wanted to do both. She watched his eyes drift down to the outrageous neckline of her vest before he whirled around and marched out of the room. Shaking her head, Arya wondered if she ought to throttle Moot or thank him – she supposed the more accurate thing to do would be to ask him why he had a vest with such plunging collar as this one in the first place.

Arya turned back to the rock and shrugged, stepping forwards and placing her hands on either side of the glinting thing. A burst of energy, not unlike the phenomenon that had happened when she first touched Fírnen, caused her to cry out soundlessly and fall to the ground as her veins felt as though they were alight with fiery ice. Panting Arya lay in a ball on the ground, curled around the stupid rock, when Eragon returned. He dashed over to her, concern in his eyes as he helped her sit up. "What happened?" he demanded, and then his eyes widened and he stared.

"I … the –" she shook her head. "I don't know – I mean I touched it before but I was fine … this time it was like touching Fírnen for the first time all over again." Arya looked at her hands; opening and closing her right she detected that small patch of skin were the nerves didn't quite meet properly and her left hand still had the large healed gash from where Durza had driven her mother's dagger through the centre of her gedwëy ignasia. Eragon was still staring opened mouthed at her. "What?" she demanded irritably.

"You – your …" he cleared his throat and closed his mouth, dropping his gaze. Arya resisted the urge to remind him her eyes were on her head. "Um – I think it healed you … well, I mean you're healed – the burn … and I assume it was the Stone … but …" he trailed off and glanced back up at her as she realised the left side of her face no longer – well, _burned_.

Eragon took hold of her and pulled her close, pressing his face against the top of her head for a long moment. Arya closed her eyes, but she was sitting in an awkward position which kinda ruined the moment – that and they were responsible to breaking out all the prisoners in Murtagh's dungeon … and in possession of the mystical stone he was fawning over … and then Eragon was still littered with evidence of torture …

Arya sighed and pulled back, "Did you find something? To put this hunk of diamond in?"

Eragon let her go as he nodded, searching round him as Arya got to her feet. She picked up the battered sword – dwarven by the looks of it – and noted idly that at least she could once again defend herself from unwanted attention. But – for whatever reason – the Stone hadn't healed the gash in her side, and it was going to be a lot harder to hide it from Eragon now she wasn't light-headed and in danger of collapsing every few feet.

"Right … now, I propose we get the hell out of here." Eragon said as Arya turned to face him. "What'd you say, Sundavar-Vergandí Dröttningu?"

Arya raised an eyebrow. "Did you just call me 'Princess Shadeslayer'?"

He grinned and bowed extravagantly, "Well you are, aren't you?"

Arya brushed past, making sure she collided with him, and left the hidden room. "Only in your dreams, Eragon."

"Oh, I don't know …" Eragon hurried to catch up with her, "I'd say my dreams aren't far of reality these days."

"Is that so?"

"Maybe."

"Maybe?" Arya half wanted him to stop; now really _wasn't_ the time for such talk. But she couldn't tell him to be serious when she herself kept flirting back. Neither of them really paid much attention to where they were going, which was why the found themselves in the main entrance hall to the keep – rather than that handy little side corridor Arya had entered through. Murtagh was standing bellowing orders to his soldiers while what sounded like a full-scale battle raged in the court-yard between the prisoners and the guards.

The two of them froze, exposed in the open with no cover and no way they could turn around and hurry back the way they came without getting noticed by _someone_. Looking round, Eragon grabbed her arm and pushed her into a narrow passage that was no doubt only used by servants. He squeezed in with her before they could be seen while Murtagh continued to shout and bellow at his men.

They heard the sounds of sprinting feet and then someone called over the noise; "My lord! Sir! The relic is missing!"

Arya felt Eragon instinctively shield her from the blast of sound that was Murtagh's rage. "_Eragon!_ I should've killed him when I had the chance!" He screamed at the soldiers to keep the prisoners out of the entrance and stormed off in search of his father. "Eragon I swear I will kill you!"

She could hear Eragon's heart pounding and glanced up at him in the dimness of the passage. It was dark enough to conceal them from view and wide enough for two people only just. They were still pressed against each other. "Do you think they've gone?"

Arya shrugged. "I'll see …" she leant past Eragon to peek round the corner at the entrance. There was still a lot of movement going on out there, which she reported back to Eragon. "But I think they're getting into formation so they should be going soon enough."

"Okay …" his voice came back soft and distracted. Arya straightened up well aware of _him_ and the fact that no one could see them and that he really was physically impressive … shaking her head Arya tried to reel her overactive imagination in check. She glanced at Eragon to find he had become equally side-tracked.

"Stop looking!" she hissed. It wasn't that she minded, but rather that there were more appropriate moments for his surveying of her cleavage than hiding in the dark with a stolen rock full of raw Magic while two angry Forsworn Riders tore apart the castle in search of them.

"Well where am I supposed to look?" he hissed back, pressing her further against the wall as they hid in the narrow space.

She placed a finger under his chin and lifted his head, "Here," his eyes darted from hers to her lips and then back again – as if afraid of reprimand. She suddenly came over all hot and foggy – like someone was dropping a gauzy veil over the two of them and shrouding them in isolation and ignorance. The predicament they were in became less real – although still urgent.

"Or I could just …" he leaned forwards, his nose brushing hers.

"Just … hold your fire …" Arya suggested in the barest of whispers.

Eragon nodded slightly, "…the moment isn't …"

"… not … right …"

"… completely ill-timed …"

"… inappropriate …" she corrected. "And … and we …"

"… we'll be caught so … so we – we shouldn't …"

Arya looked up at him, startled he was so close. For a moment she couldn't find her voice. "… really shouldn't …" her voice trailed off. Eragon looked at her for a long moment, she felt his hand trace up her spine and shivered into him, her eyes drifting shut again. _Really, really shouldn't …_

"Arya …"

At the sound of her _name_ she glanced up at him. There was an honesty in his eyes that she couldn't shake. A promise that he didn't need to say.

"Do you remember when we met at Ilirea after those long years apart?"

"Remember?" Eragon muttered, "My cheek was red for a week after you were done slapping me!"

Arya smiled slightly. "You let me do it."

Eragon pressed his brow against hers, his body shifting closer to her in the narrow space. "That was Saphira – she stopped me from stopping you."

"Good. You deserved it."

"I think I deserve recompense for it as well … you hit me _hard_, Princess."

_Really, really, _really_, shouldn't …_ "What do you have in mind, Rider?"

"Oh I don't know …" Eragon whispered, "I was thinking perhaps …"

When he kissed her it was as if the world had been reborn – as if the sun was shining new and as if the dragons were taking to the skies for the first time. The stone that was such an important tool in stopping Murtagh clattered to the ground as every inhibition vanished into oblivion. One hand tangled in her hair, the other holding her against the wall at her waist … Arya didn't care what happened next – only that he kept kissing her. The heat of his body against hers – the desperation and need in his kiss … the assurance he meant it …

Eragon gave no indication he was stopping, and she wouldn't have let him even if he did. She kissed him no less than he was her – needing the way he held her and touched her and the subconscious promise it would never, ever, end … she had one hand over his beating heart, which slid to the back of his neck while the other held his jaw against hers, forbidding him from moving away. Absently she noted that she felt the dusting of stubble along his jaw and found it rather accommodating … it was hard to know who was in control of the kiss – or even if there was any control at all and not just some long anticipated, long overdue act that _really _couldn't wait.

If anything the world had ceased to exist; he was the world. In kissing him – being with him – did she feel more than she had felt in a long time … in too long … moments with Fírnen when they chased the wind she had been able to grasp at the height of joy and now also was the full embrace of emotion – of feeling – within her reach … he kissed her jaw and then her neck and she clung to him so tightly. She loved him. Eragon pulled back, dragging her bottom lip with him and then pressed his forehead against hers while they panted – hearts stammering.

Someone cleared their throat behind them and Eragon whirled around, pushing away from Arya and drawing Brisingr as he went. Blödhgarm caught the blow on the flat of his blade and grinned. "Really Lord Rider, is that any way to greet a friend?"

* * *

><p>AN : _Blödhgarm needs to work on his timing ..._


End file.
